Living Doll
by Luuuurve
Summary: Before Gorillaz, Murdoc runs over 2D, then named StuPot, and is forced to spend the next year looking after his comatose victim. Warning: Murdoc 2D slash. Epilogue: Murdoc puts his master plan into action, but will 2D be a part of it?
1. Saturday Boy

**Chapter 1 - Saturday Boy**

_Saturday Boy Stu-Pot, a keyboard obsessive and nice kid dullard, is the star employee at Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium, on course to make regional manager. But then comes a Saturday to end all weeks (just like a Sunday, but with shopping).  
- Gorillaz Biography_

_Sooner or later we all discover that the big moments in life are not the advertised ones, not the birthdays, the graduations, the weddings, not the great goals achieved. The real milestones are less prepossessing. They come to the door of memory unannounced, stray dogs that amble in, sniff around a bit and simply never leave.  
- Murdoc's Birthday message 7th June 2002_

_Murdoc: Give us a light mate will you?  
OS Guy: You can't smoke in here.  
Murdoc: Yes I can, watch! Heheh! (Cigarette lighter is heard)  
- From We Are The Dury interview_

"Stu-Pot? What's the matter? You seem miles away."

Stu-Pot blinked and realised he had been wiping the same spot on the front window of Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium for over a minute. He stared at the reflection in the glass. Standing behind him was a short, plump man with the fat, kind face that had led to the nickname 'Uncle' Norm, although he wasn't an uncle to anyone, as far as Stu-Pot knew. Stu-Pot turned around. "I'm OK, I guess," he said.

"I suppose your latest audition didn't go the way you planed?" said Uncle Norm. He looked sympathetic.

Stu-Pot sighed again and nodded. "They said I sang OK and played the keyboards well, but I don't have the right look to be a lead singer. I'm just trying to figure out what I can change, but I just don't know." He stared back at his own reflection in the clean glass, taking in his long black mullet hair, the scraggly black beard, the eyebrows that met in the middle, the cheap black trousers that showed his ankles, the grey slip on shoes, and the short-sleeved shirt. What could he possibly change?

Behind him, Uncle Norm gave a hearty laugh. "You don't need to change a thing, Stu-Pot. I keep telling you, give up on the auditions. You don't need to join a band now you've got this job. Why, you're my star employee!"

Stu-Pot looked sad. "It's just that I spent all those years studying singing and the keyboard, Uncle Norm. I love this job but..." he paused and went on, "Working in retail isn't quite what I had in mind."

"You're not missing out on anything," said Uncle Norm encouragingly. "Bands are all about egos, fighting and endless gigs. You're good at selling keyboards, Stu-Pot. If you keep it up, you could be regional manager of Uncle Norm's Organ Emporiums in only ten or twenty years."

Somehow this didn't cheer Stu-Pot up, but he tried to grin anyway, "Thanks Uncle Norm," he said.

"Cheer up, lad. Good heavens, is that the time?" Uncle Norm had caught sight of his watch. "It's nearly closing time. I've got to go to the bank. Mind the shop, please Stu-Pot."

"Sure, Uncle Norm."

It was quiet in the shop after Uncle Norm had left. Stu-Pot was giving the glass a last, vigorous rub when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise up. He had the eerie feeling he was being watched. Suddenly, a large, long-fingered hand pressed onto the glass outside. Stu-Pot could see the olive skin of the hand growing white from the pressure. He looked up, and almost jumped out of his shoes.

A demon stood outside Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium, pressing one hand to the glass as if trying to ascertain how thick it was, and staring at him with burning, mismatched eyes, one black, one red, both nearly hidden under a thick, black fringe of hair. He wore black jeans, and a black, long sleeved 'Black Sabbath' t-shirt over his slim, taut body. A large, gold, inverted cross hung around his neck. His lips were drawn back in a gleeful grin, as if he knew a secret joke, revealing teeth that were sharp, pointed, and green. An obscenely long tongue slid out from between those sharp, green teeth, grasped the toothpick dangling from his bottom lip and flipped it over.

Stu-Pot's jaw dropped. The demon was human. Surely? A far from beautiful human, who looked battered and tired, with dark bags under his eyes as if he had been out for 5 days in a row and still hadn't caught up on sleep. But there was something otherworldly about him, a sort of unidentifiable, unquantifiable animal magnetism. Stu-Pot could see scorn in the demon's grin, but he couldn't look away. The demon was staring as intensely back at Stu-Pot as Stu-Pot was staring at him.

At length, the demon broke the gaze, lifted his hand from the glass, leaving a handprint, and walked lazily towards the sliding doors. Stu-Pot blinked, as if a spell had been broken and looked at the handprint in dismay.

The demon entered, carelessly shaking the raindrops off himself like a dog. He stood by the doors, looking at Stu-Pot with his blazing eyes and Stu-Pot suddenly didn't care about the window.

"Can I help you, sir?" said Stu-Pot, breathlessly.

"I doubt it," the demon drawled lazily. The demon's voice was deep, raspy, and like the rest of him, was both hideous and attractive at the same time. His mismatched eyes were roaming around the room, not just looking at the keyboards, Stu-Pot noticed with curiosity, but at the ceiling and walls as well.

"Is there any particular kind of keyboard you're looking for, sir, or would you like to browse?"

The demon gave a shrug and peered at the nametag on Stu-Pot's shirt. "I'll browse, Stuarrrrt," he growled. He sauntered off among the keyboards, still flipping the toothpick over and over in his mouth.

Uncle Norm walked back in, shaking his umbrella. He glanced at the demon and frowned, sidled up to Stu-Pot and whispered, "Doubt you'll get a sale out of him."

"I'll try, sir," Stu-Pot whispered back.

"I saw him putting his hand on the window," said Uncle Norm.

"He was looking at me," said Stu-Pot. Uncle Norm looked at him in surprise and Stu-Pot, to his horror, felt himself blushing but he didn't know why. He covered up his embarrassment by saying "I'll stay back and clean the window, sir."

"Good lad. Why don't you demonstrate a keyboard for him?"

"Yes, sir," Stu-Pot said. He took a deep breath and approached the demon, who was poking at a turned off keyboard as if wondering why it made no sound. The demon pulled a silver cigarette lighter and a packet of 666 brand cigarettes out of the back pocket of his jeans and lit a cigarette in one motion, then, catching sight of Stu-Pot, showed his green teeth in a sneer and offered him a cigarette.

"No thank you, sir. I don't smoke. Is there any particular keyboard you have in mind?" asked Stu-Pot.

"I should have guessed you don't smoke," the demon growled. He pushed the cigarettes and lighter back into his pocket. The warmth of the shop was beginning to penetrate his wet clothes and hair and steam was rising.

Uncle Norm appeared at their side. "You can't smoke in here, sir."

"Yes I can. Watch me," said the steaming demon, exhaling a cloud of smoke and laughing deep in his throat as Uncle Norm frowned.

"Is there any particular kind of keyboard you're looking for, sir?" Uncle Norm repeated Stu-Pot's question in a cold voice.

The demon's eyes stopped roaming and focused on Uncle Norm. "I'm starting a band," he said.

"Are you a keyboard player, sir?" asked Uncle Norm.

The demon gave a casual shrug. "I don't play the keyboard, I play bass. It's my band. MY band," he repeated emphatically, his voice trailing off into a wicked chuckle.

"What does your keyboard player want?" Uncle Norm persisted.

"I don't have a keyboard player in my band, yet," the demon admitted. He blew out a cloud and smoke and added, "Well, I've got one guy. He's learning."

Uncle Norm sighed and looked at Stu-Pot. "My Saturday Boy, Stu-Pot, should be able to help you."

The demon looked at Uncle Norm, "Saturday Boy?"

"He works Saturdays," said Uncle Norm. "He's studying keyboard and voice at the Conservatorium on weekdays. He's good," Uncle Norm added, "So good the rest of my staff are jealous of him. You should ask him to give you a demonstration."

"They're jealous, eh?" the demon looked at Stu-Pot with a smirk, as if only an idiot could ever be jealous of someone like him. Stu-Pot found himself blushing again. The demon seemed to find that amusing. "So Saturday Boy, show me what you've got," said the demon after a pause, blowing out smoke. He stuck out his tongue until it dangled down to his shoulder and wriggled it, making a wet, distracting sound.

Stu-Pot struggled to concentrate. Why was this hideous creature having such an effect on him? "Please call me Stu-Pot. What's your name, sir?"

There was a long pause before the demon said, "Sandy. Sandy...Beach."

Stu-Pot froze for a moment, thought about it, took in the demon's intimidating appearance, decided not to comment on the name and went on, "Very well, Mr Beach. I need to know what kind of band you have before I can demonstrate a keyboard."

The pupil in the demon's black eye flickered, "Death metal. We'll also be doing some dub, punk, maybe some hip hop, jazz, and gospel." He stared at Stu-Pot as if daring him to comment.

"That's quite a range for one band," said Stu-Pot, intrigued.

"You got a problem with that?" the demon glared.

"No, no. I think it's great. I sang a jazz song when I auditioned for a hip-hop band last week." Stu-Pot's face fell, "It didn't go down too well."

The demon chuckled and flicked his cigarette ash onto the carpet, "Rrrrrreally?"

Stu-Pot brightened, "You need a keyboard player for your band, don't you?"

"I've got a keyboard player," said the demon, in a carefully guarded tone.

"But he can't play yet," Stu-Pot pointed out.

The demon gave a shrug and for the first time looked uncomfortable.

Stu-Pot felt a rush of hope. Maybe he could sell a keyboard and join a band at the same time? "I can play, and sing. Step this way, Mr Beach. I'll show you what I can do."

Stu-Pot hurried along the lines of keyboards, with the demon trailing behind, until he reached his favourite and tapped the power button. He played the intro to his favourite dub song and started singing. The demon listened, rubbing his chin, smoking and staring at Stu-Pot. Perhaps it was the central heating in the shop, but Stu-Pot thought he looked a little hot under the collar.

Stu-Pot finished. "What do you think?" he asked.

The demon considered. "I like the keyboard," he said.

"What about me? Do you think I could join your band?" Stu-Pot said, trying to keep the hope out of his voice.

"You've got the voice and the keyboards skills," the demon admitted. "But the looks? No way in Hell."

Stu-Pot wilted in front of him. "I keep hearing that. I auditioned for ten bands in the last two weeks and that's what they all said."

"Maybe you should do something about the way you look?" said the demon carelessly, grinding his ashes into the carpet.

Stu-Pot looked crestfallen, "I wouldn't even know where to start." He brightened as a thought struck him, "Can you help me?"

"What? Help you? You want me to give you a makeoverrrr?" the demon growled incredulously.

"Why not? You need a keyboard player, I need to change the way I look. Maybe we can help each other?" said Stu-Pot.

The demon looked him up and down with an unreadable expression on his face. Then he gave a raspy laugh, "No way. Too much work. It would take a yearrrr to whip you into shape." His tongue flicked. "I haven't got time to makeover guys who look like their mother dressed them this morning. Nothing less than a sharp blow to the head would make YOU cool."

On the other side of the shop, Uncle Norm, folded his arms and glared.

Stu-Pot slumped. "Well, I was only asking, sir. Are you still interested in the keyboard?"

The demon looked at the keyboard and grinned. "It's perfect. I'll take it. Although," he added, looking at the price tag, "I know a way...a place," he corrected quickly, "I can get it for less." The look of private, silent glee was back on his face.

Stu-Pot looked puzzled, "Where can you get it for less? This is the only keyboard store in Nottingham."

The look of silent glee didn't change, "I know people who can help me get a better price."

Stu-Pot gave up on more than the keyboard sale, "Very well, sir."

Walking back to the door, the demon stopped by the big front window and once again appeared to be looking at the glass. He placed his hand against it and peered out intently. Then he took his hand away, leaving another handprint in addition to the handprint he had left on the outside, gave Stu-Pot that gleeful look again and left. The doors hissed shut behind him.

Stu-Pot stared after him, feeling a strange sense of disappointment that had nothing to do with his lost sale.

Uncle Norm came up behind Stu-Pot. "It's closing time."

Stu-Pot dragged his eyes away from the window. "I'll lock up if you like, Uncle Norm. I've got to stay back and clean the window again, anyway. Maybe I'll do some keyboard practise as well. Seems like I need it," he said sadly, picking up the bottle of glass cleaner and the cloth.

Uncle Norm didn't wait for another invitation. He grabbed his coat and headed for the door, pausing at the door to say goodbye. "Thanks, Stu-Pot and don't worry about that idiot. I bet you'll never see him again."


	2. Nasty Bad Boy Crew

**Chapter 2 - Nasty Bad Boy Crew **

_Murdoc used to hang out with a bunch of rough types (who helped him ram-raid Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium, where 2D worked) but seemingly ditched them on forming Gorillaz, as no more was heard about them after that  
- Unofficial Murdoc Biography_

Life was a joke to Murdoc Niccals. After all, you had to laugh, didn't you? The other option was unthinkable, and it could get you beaten up or killed. Might as well come to terms with the fact that Satan was Lord, life was Hell, and the only thing you could do was laugh about it all.

Murdoc was certainly laughing as he walked through the rain and thought of what had happened back in Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium. Sandy Beach? What a stupid name! And that geeky mullet head boy and his fat boss had bought it. The cheek of that geeky boy, that Stu-Pot, asking for a makeover! As if it wasn't perfectly obvious that he needed to put a gap in that thick, black monobrow, shave off his beard, let his hair grow out of that damned mullet, stand up straight and put some decent clothes on. For a moment, Murdoc wondered if he should have told him. The kid could really sing and play, after all. But, naaah. He'd never see Stu-Pot again, so what was the point?

Flipping the toothpick over and over in his mouth, he walked across the parking lot to his tatty Vauxhall Astra. Murdoc didn't care about the cars he drove. Not for him a massive 4-wheel-drive that never went near a dirt track, or a flashy, red, convertible sportscar. He was of the opinion that the bigger and more expensive the car a man drove, the smaller his penis.

Judging from the condition of the Vauxhall Astra, Murdoc's penis was six feet long.

Death metal thundered through the Astra's steamed up windows. Murdoc's cronies, his nasty bad boy crew, were waiting for him. Murdoc opened the driver's side door and smoke poured out into the rainy air. Crusher's vast, bear-like body filled the passenger seat. In the back, Billy-Boy, the blue haired dimwit pretty boy lead guitarist, was sucking on a bong, while Tiny the lanky, mowhawked, speed freak guitar player twitched, and Rocky, the would-be keyboard player sat inscrutable in very dark sunglasses, even though the sun wasn't out. Rocky's head was bandaged around the hilt of a knife that Rocky had always boasted that doctors were unwilling to remove. At least, that was his story. Crushed into the front seat next to his larger brother was Munch, shaven-headed and bearded, and the only talented one out of the whole motley crew. Unfortunately, he did not sing or play any instruments. He was the band's artist.

The nasty bad boy crew all looked at Murdoc expectantly as he climbed into the driver's seat.

"So how did it go?" asked Billy-Boy, putting down the bong. He was as high as a kite and his pupils were pinpoints.

Murdoc grinned, "All set. There aren't any video cameras. There's an alarm but, so what? We won't be hanging around. In, grab the keyboards, and out. I know exactly which set of keyboards we need. The Saturday boy, Stu-Pot, showed me." Murdoc laughed. "The front window is piss weak," he went on. "No security grill, and normal glass not toughened glass. The car will go through it like that!" He clicked his fingers. "We'll do it tonight. There won't be anyone there and the filth will be busy with the football game. We'll have plenty of time to get away."

"Are you sure this old bomb can handle smashing through a window?" asked Billy-Boy.

"Don't call it a bomb, unless you want to walk,"

"Sorry, do you think this…car…can handle it?"

Murdoc patted the steering wheel, "You bet. We'll be in there and out of there with the keyboards faster than you can say ram raid. All we need to do is wait for tonight."

A police car siren started up, only a block away. The nasty bad boy crew winced and hunched down below the level of the windows. The sound faded into the distance and everyone relaxed and sat up again.

"A bit jumpy, aren't you?" muttered Murdoc, in the driver's seat. He was the only one who hadn't moved when the siren went off.

"We're not sure if this is the best idea you've ever had, Murdoc. You're stealing keyboards for Rocky and he doesn't even know how to play," Billy said.

"I'm learning!" said Rocky defensively. "I can do scales already."

Murdoc snorted, "Rocky, I could replace you with Stu-Pot in no time flat. Stu-Pot can play keyboards and sing like a fucking angel. He was begging to join too."

"Well, why don't you replace me then?" said Rocky sulkily, folding his arms.

Murdoc grinned, "You're no pretty boy, Rocky, but at least you don't have a head like a toilet brush, like Stu-Pot. But you'd better fucking practice when I get you that keyboard. Stu-Pot in the shop picked it out specially."

"Listen to you talking about Stu-Pot," snigged Crusher.

Murdoc punched Crusher, though his fist bounced off Crusher's solid cheekbone without doing damage to anything but Murdoc's knuckles. "He's got talent, which is more than I can say for you. Learned to play the drums only last year, didn't you?"

Crusher rubbed his face. "Well at least I'm better than Rocky."

Murdoc, Billy-Boy, Crusher and Tiny all started shouting at each other at once.

"This is pointless," came Munch's voice, cutting through the noise. The other band members were silent. Munch, the skilled artist, rarely spoke, and when he did everyone listened. "We need those keyboards. Let's go to the pub and see how we feel about the ram raid in a few hours."

"Good idea," said Murdoc.

Innumerable pints and several hours later, there was no more dissent. "To ram raiding!" shouted Crusher, holding his glass up high. The rest of the nasty bad boy crew cheered and raised their glasses.

"To ram raiding!"

Murdoc winced behind the empty pint glasses covering the table. "Shut the Hell up, will you?" he hissed. As leader and getaway driver, he'd only had a couple of drinks, and he was nearly sober, a state of mind he found unfamiliar and irritating. People in the pub were staring at the shouting, would-be ram raiders and in his more paranoid moments, Murdoc expected the police to crash in the door and arrest them at any moment. He peered through the steamy pub window. Night had fallen and the rain had stopped. The pub televisions showed that the football game had started.

Murdoc got to his feet. "Time to go," he said.

"We're going! We're going ram raiding!" shouted Crusher at the watching pub crowd.

Murdoc looked back at the suspicious faces lining the bar and gave them a grin that he hoped didn't look desperate, "He's so full of shit," he said.

Somehow, Murdoc got his nasty bad boy crew out of the pub. They staggered their way out, grabbing chairs and door jams for support, weaved their way to the Vauxhall Astra and all but fell into it. Murdoc plonked himself in the driver's seat and started the car, listening to his friends cheering around him. Their mood had done a 180 degree turn since they were last in the car and listening, Murdoc began to chuckle to himself. He could feel the old sense of glee coming back. This was going to be a fun night.

Murdoc drove off, with tyres burning, and tore through the streets, both hands clamped on the steering wheel, his back pushed into his chair by the acceleration. Death metal thumped through the speakers. The nasty bad boy crew laughed and smoked and the Nottingham streets rolled past.

Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium came into view and Murdoc stopped the Vauxhall Astra, revving the engine. "This is it!" he said.

"The lights are on. Someone must still be in there," said Munch, frowning.

"Who'd still be hanging around their work on a Saturday night?" said Murdoc.

"Someone with no social life?" Munch offered, looking uncertain, but he was immediately thrust back in his seat as Murdoc accelerated towards the store window.

"Brace yourselves," growled Murdoc. He was laughing as the car hit the gutter and bounced sharply up onto the footpath. The window was only a couple of metres away.

Then Murdoc saw him. Stu-Pot. Cleaning the window. In front of the car. Time slowed to a crawl.

Stu-Pot froze, wide-eyed, staring at the oncoming car, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

Murdoc slammed on the brakes but the car was still moving forward. It went through the window, sending shards of glass flying. Murdoc could make out everything. The flying glass. The way Stu-Pot dropped the cloth and window wash bottle. The way he was poised, about to flee, but too late.

The car hit Stu-Pot with a bone-shaking thud. Mismatched eyes met white eyes filled with pain, shock and fear. Then Stu-Pot slid down and out of sight.

A sense of unreality came over Murdoc as he felt the car roll over Stu-Pot's head and he felt Stu-Pot's skull bones crushing beneath his tyres. Then car stopped moving.

From underneath the car came a scream. If Murdoc had ever had any doubts about Stu-Pot's vocal powers, they were dispelled now, along with a large chunk of sanity. The power, the volume, the pain and despair in that scream took Murdoc and shook him until he was as weak as a rag doll.

Then the scream stopped.

Life was usually a joke to Murdoc Niccals but the humour had just gone out of it.


	3. Blood Bound

**Chapter 3 - Blood Bound**

_I saved your life, you owe me your soul  
- Murdoc from Radio 1 webchat  
_

_Interviewer: What is your greatest fear?  
Murdoc: That I'll get frightened of something, what is it they say about fear itself? No hold on, shit I know, that some dirty bastard will show me the contents of Rotten dot com again, I mean I am not a squeamish man and I don't believe in censorship but that should be banned! I strongly advise you all not to get curious and look at this because I'm not joking!  
- From the Exclaim.ca interview_

How long Murdoc Niccals sat stunned in the driver's seat of his Vauxhall Astra, he had no idea, but it was probably only a few seconds. The sense of unreality persisted. Stu-Pot's desperate, white eyes were burned into his retinas and his ears were still ringing from Stu-Pot's scream. His nose and tongue hurt and he could taste blood.

Abruptly, Murdoc came back to himself. There was a confused noise of swearing and car doors being wrenched open coming from all around him. Broken glass crunched under heavy boots as his nasty bad boy crew climbed out.

"We've hit someone. They're under the car. Murdoc. You said nothing like this would happen. You said everything would be fine!" came Billy-Boy's panicking voice.

Murdoc struggled out of the driver's seat and stepped out onto the carpet of broken, crunching glass. His only thought was to see what had happened to Stu-Pot. He sprinted to the other side of the car and lay down, among the shards of glass.

Blood was seeping out from under the car. He could see Stu-Pot's still, huddled body. The wheel was resting on his head. Murdoc took a deep breath.

"Guys, I want you to grab a corner of the car each and lift it when I tell you," Murdoc could hear his own voice, commanding and strangely calm, coming from what seemed a mile away. He put one hand onto Stu-Pot's neck to steady him, and felt the wet warmth of blood seeping up his arm.

The nasty bad boy crew muttered. Their faces looked sickly.

"Your nose is bleeding, Murdoc," said Tiny.

"Who cares?" said Murdoc. He could feel blood dripping from his chin, but it didn't matter. "Grab the car. Do it! Or you'll be looking at murder, not assault and robbery." He steadied Stu-Pot's head as they took their positions around the car. "Ready? When I tell you, lift the car and take one step to the left. Don't drop it or slip or you'll kill him. Are you ready? One, two, three, lift!"

The nasty bad boy crew grunted and strained and lifted the car off Stu-Pot's head.

"OK, take a step. Another. Now put it down." The car hit the ground with a crunching sound. Some part of Murdoc noticed that the keyboards he planned to steal were now under the car and crushed, along with his dreams of owning a band. But Murdoc did not care.

With the car moved, Stu-Pot was revealed, a crumpled, choking figure, lying in a nest of broken glass. He was unconscious. Dark blood was leaking from one of his eyes, but far worse, blood mixed with a clear fluid dribbled from his ears and nose. The memories of the training he kept secret came back to Murdoc. Fractured skull for sure.

Crusher made a choking sound of horror. "There's a dint in his head! Oh, my fucking God! I can see his brains! This is worse than Rotten dot com!" He scrambled away and Murdoc could hear him retching.

Rocky, Tiny, and Billy-Boy simply stood over Stu-Pot. Rocky gawked uselessly, he had taken off his sunglasses and he looked weak and vulnerable without them. Billy-Boy was whimpering, nearly in tears. Tiny just looked on, bewildered.

Murdoc crawled through the glass, and crouched by Stu-Pot's side. The broken glass stuck into him but he didn't notice. Training that Murdoc had tried to forget took over. He moved the boy carefully, mindful of his fractured skull, opening his air passages and allowing the blood to run out of his mouth so that he was no longer choking. The boy's eyes were slightly open and Murdoc could see black blood creeping across the whiteness of one of them. Eight ball fracture on top of everything else. He could smell a sweet, sugary smell, like butterscotch. It mixed strangely with the coppery smell of blood.

Stu-Pot's blood, mixed with his own, dripped from his hands. This was bad, very bad. Every law of hygiene and satanic ritual broken. He didn't have any rubber gloves. He hadn't washed his hands, he hadn't said the correct rites. But there was nothing he could do but keep Stu-Pot alive until help arrived.

Murdoc sensed Rocky, Tiny and Billy-Boy bending over him. "Call an ambulance!" he said, without looking up.

"No way," said Rocky. "I'm not taking responsibility for this. This was your idea. If I call, they'll think it's my fault. They'll have my voice on the tape."

"Call the fcking ambulance, Rocky. Billy-Boy? Tiny? Anyone? I'm trying to give first aid here so we're not facing a murder charge," Murdoc said through gritted teeth.

"You seem to know what you're doing there. You a doctor?" said Crusher, walking back and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Murdoc could hear his stubble rasping.

"Shut up," Murdoc snapped. Now was not the time to elaborate. He had never told anyone what he did before he became a bass player. Stu-Pot was going a little blue around the lips and starting to shiver. Murdoc felt for his pulse, and it was weak and rapid. "Get me some of the blankets from over there. Stu-Pot's losing blood and he's got to be kept warm or he'll go into shock."

Tiny lifted a hand to take one of the green blankets that were covering the keyboards to keep the dust out and stopped. "No, I'm not putting my fingerprints on these."

Murdoc swore at Tiny, leaped to his feet and grabbed two blankets. One he rolled up and placed under Stu-Pot's feet so that they were elevated. The other he lay over his body and tucked him in to keep him warm.

The nasty bad boy crew continued to gawk uselessly as Murdoc grabbed his mobile and called emergency services himself.

He told emergency services the truth. Calmly. Matter of factly. Without his usual growling and hyperbole. He told them his name. He told them Stu-Pot's medical state and what had happened to him. He did not tell them about the nasty bad boy crew who were standing around almost in tears.

The operator queried him and the nasty bad boy crew watched as Murdoc replied, "How do I know this? I was a nurse. I quit a few years ago and became a bass player."

When Murdoc hung up, the ambulance was on its way, and he realised the nasty bad boy crew were staring at him with a smirking fascination. He looked back down at Stu-Pot, waiting for the questions he knew were coming.

"You were a nurse? I never knew," said Billy-Boy.

"I quit because the pay was shit," said Murdoc, not looking up. There were other reasons, but he didn't feel like explaining. He heard Crusher start to snigger above his head and realised explanations would be unnecessary.

"You're gay, aren't you Murdoc?" said Crusher.

Murdoc's teeth bared in a snarl. Not this shit again? The way people jumped to conclusions when he said he was a nurse. He thought he had left this behind years ago. "No, I'm not gay," he said, between gritted teeth.

"Come off it, ALL male nurses are gay. It's like hairdressing. Now I know why you never told us," Crusher sniggered. Crusher was about to go on when he caught sight of Stu-Pot, who was going blue around the lips. "He's dying. You killed him," said Crusher, forgetting his own part in the ram raid. His bulky form pushed through the shattered window and into the street, where he turned and gave a passing shot, "See you later, poof!" before running down the street.

"I'm NOT gay!" Murdoc shouted after him.

Murdoc turned back to the other members of the nasty bad boy crew.

"We're murderers," said Billy-Boy. "That means time in jail. I can't go to jail. I'm too pretty!"

"I thought you been there, you liar," said Tiny.

"I have been there. I just visited one day with me Mum and a charity group choir. I don't want to get banged up for real. Shit!" Billy-Boy turned around and ran away, out of the broken glass of the shop window, into the kerb and off down the street as if the devil was on his heels.

"Come back!" shouted Murdoc uselessly at the disappearing figure. If he'd had any say in the matter, the devil would have been on Billy-Boy's heels for real. He looked around. Tiny had vanished without a word. He must have slipped away while Crusher or Billy-Boy were drawing attention to themselves. That only left Rocky.

"They forgot something," said Rocky, gazing after the others.

"You mean they forgot we were all supposed to be best mates?" said Murdoc bitterly, as he crouched by Stu-Pot's body.

"No, they forgot this was supposed to be a ram raid," said Rocky. He darted forward, grabbed a keyboard at random and headed out through the window. He glanced behind at Murdoc on the way out, "You seem to have forgotten too. Leave him. The police will be here soon."

"I can't leave Stu-Pot," said Murdoc. "He'll die."

Rocky looked at Stu-Pot, and then at Murdoc. "Goodbye then," he said. Then he was gone, running up the street with the keyboard tucked under his arm.

Murdoc had never felt so alone. The nasty bad boy crew he had thought were his closest friends had just turned tail and run, leaving him alone with a geeky, unconscious stranger that he wouldn't have touched, wouldn't have spent more than five seconds with under normal circumstances.

But these weren't normal circumstances. Murdoc had been in endless trouble with the law, since he was old enough to be arrested. Getting arrested was a joke, court was a theatre, with all the players strutting in wigs and gowns. But it was all over minor things. Shoplifting, mostly. Nobody got hurt except for the insurance companies. Murdoc had never badly injured someone before. There was something so real about the still, broken, blood stained body in front of him that it made every other part of his life seem like an unimportant dream. He couldn't run. He felt handcuffed to Stu-Pot's side.

He stayed by Stu-Put, holding his wrist, feeling the pulse get faster and weaker, feeling his hand become clammy. Begging him to keep breathing.

He stayed by Stu-Pot when flashing lights lit up the smashed remains of Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium.

He stayed by Stu-Pot when he heard the police and paramedics crunching through the broken glass towards him.

He did not flinch when real handcuffs came down over his wrists. It was as if he were already wearing them anyway. He listened in silence as the police read him his rights.

He watched the ambulance containing Stu-Pot take off, lights blazing and sirens screaming, and felt it was taking a part of himself away.

Somehow he was already bound to Stu-Pot, by bonds far stronger than those metal cuffs around his wrists. He thought about it as he sat in the back of the police car, looking at his hands, which were reddish brown with slowly drying blood. Maybe that was it? The blood? Murdoc thought about all the satanic rituals he knew. Most of them involved blood. Mixing blood. Washing in blood. Consuming blood. He had done all those things that night.

Have I inadvertently blood bound myself to Stu-Pot? I must have, he thought. Stu-Pot is in me and I am in him. Forever.

He sleep walked through the finger printing, the checking in. The photographs. Everybody knew him by name, he was a fixture at the police station, usually there once a week or so, for public drunkenness or shoplifting. But he wasn't his normal cheeky, chatty self. Finally alone, in the police cell, he lay down on the thin mattress and went to sleep.

He dreamed he was in the intensive care ward in hospital, lying on a bed, surrounded by beeping machines and tubes full of pumping fluid. The machines towered over him accusing, threatening. Shivering, he tried to get up and run, but he found that he was handcuffed, to a motionless, blood stained body wrapped in a green blanket that had once been used for keeping dust off a keyboard. The handcuffs were made of blood, drying brown and cracked around his wrist, and blood stained the blanket. He lifted the body, blanket and all, into his arms and ran with it. Through the harshly lit hospital corridors, out onto a lonely, bleak, grey moor wreathed in fog. Lost and alone in the fog, he lifted the blanket.

The body had no head.

He woke up screaming and thrashing in the narrow cell bed, still trying to break the handcuffs that bound him to the limp, blood stained corpse.

Stu-Pot's blood was still on his hands, turning brown and crusty. He scrubbed his hands under cold water in the small sink in his cell for half an hour, but the blood was obstinate and he had no soap. He tried to sleep again and found himself back on the moors, carrying the corpse with trembling hands, trying not to look too closely at the wound at the end of the neck stump as he ran through the fog. All through the night he alternatively slept, screamed himself awake and scrubbed at his hands.

In the morning, he overheard two policemen talking outside his cell.

"Did you see Murdoc Niccals this morning? He's one sorry bastard. Constable who fingerprinted him last night said he looked like a ghost."

"What, Murdoc Niccals? The Murdoc Niccals? Showing remorse? Well, there's always a first time."


	4. The Damage We've Done

**Chapter 4 - The Damage We've Done**

Author's Note: Thanks very much for the reviews! Xuanwu, those last 2 chapters have been finished for some time and I've posted them to Gorillaz Adult Live Journal Community. You can find them indexed (along with the rest of my work, much of it far too adult to post to Fanfiction dot net on my LJ at luuuurve dot livejournal dot com.

_Burned six thousand minds, and I'm sorry for all times,_  
_I just can't add up the sums to find the damage we've done  
- "Damage" by You, Am, I_

_Murdoc was thrown in jail...however, when some of the inmates took a shine to him, Murdoc had to make some new friends. Fast. Murdoc the 'Mexican Arse-Bandito?' Not a good look.  
- Gorillaz Promo Booklet March 2005_

_My older brother Hannibal was a Skin and he took me too see the UK Subs supporting Sham 69. What he didn't tell me was that he'd taken me so that him and all of his mates could give me a kicking because I was a rocker, the bastard. I only got to see Jimmy Percy spitting at a girl before I was knocked unconscious, so I couldn't give you a review, so to speak, but I'll never forget that experience or the lesson it taught me  
- From the Exclaim.ca interview_

"I'm looking at a prison term, aren't I?" said Murdoc glumly. He was sitting in his lawyer's fancy office, wearing his usual jeans and grey, long-sleeved t-shirt and showing his usual healthy disrespect for authority by chain smoking. It wasn't as if his lawyer, a tall brunette with a formal haircut and grey business suit, could possibly hate him more than she already did.

She glared at him with the barely veiled dislike and aggression that had started the moment she read the police statement. Murdoc wished he hadn't told the interviewing officer about the fake name he had used, 'Sandy Beach', and how silly it was, but how could he have known that his lawyer's name would be Sandra T. Beach?

"A prison term is likely, Mr Niccals," Beach said coldly.

Murdoc shuddered. "I've been inside before, Ms Beach. Six months for shoplifting. It was bloody awful! The inmates took a shine to my tongue." He shivered. "I stopped taking showers because it wasn't safe. Never really got back into the habit of taking showers again when I got out."

Beach looked disgusted, but not surprised, as if she'd already noticed. "That was a minimum security prison, Mr Niccals," she pointed out. "If you get the harshest possible sentence on this occasion, you're looking at ten years in maximum security prison." Her mouth twisted cruelly. "Ten years fighting off serial killers, gang members and rapists in the showers, Mr Niccals. Minimum security will seem like Happy Fun Play Prison by comparison."

Murdoc paled underneath his olive skin, "I don't deserve that."

Beach tapped a pen on the table. "Mr Tusspot's parents would say you do, Mr Niccals. Their son never regained consciousness and currently resides in a nursing home where he needs round the clock care. Have you read the medical report?"

"I have," said Murdoc. It had made his nightmares much worse. Now the headless body had a medical wristband with Stuart Tusspot written on it and bore the unhealed scars of the numerous operations Stu-Pot had been through.

"So you understand why you'll be getting a severe sentence, then."

Murdoc took a deep breath. "I saved Stu-Pot's life. If I hadn't got that car off him and given him first aid and called the ambulance, he'd be dead. Won't that make a difference to my sentence? Why can't I stay out of prison and look after him? It would make more sense than becoming the British arse bandit, while National Health pays for Stu-Pot's care."

Beach chewed the end of her pen. "The lowest possible sentence you could receive is a long term of community service." She thought for a moment, "Wait here, I have something that could help you." She went into the other room and brought back a tape recorder, which she placed on the table. "Listen to this," she said.

She pressed the play button and Murdoc heard his own voice, but barely recognised it. It was a recording of the emergency phone call he had made at Stu-Pot's side, and it was a somewhat muffled recording but that wasn't the reason he sounded different. Without his usual growling and bullshit, his voice was deep, smooth and beautiful. He heard himself describing Stu-Pot's injuries in calm, medical terms and looked at Beach with curiosity.

"This tape could be the saving of you," said Beach, pressing the stop button. "On this tape, you don't sound like a smelly, alcoholic, satanic bass player with a criminal record as long as my arm."

Murdoc grumbled something, but Beach ignored him. "You sound like a skilled, responsible medical practitioner, who has just made a terrible mistake but can and will make up for it, given half a chance. If you can give the judge and jury that impression you will get the minimum sentence and escape a prison term."

A hopeful look crossed Murdoc's face, but faded. "How the Hell am I going to convince people I'm a skilled, responsible medical practitioner? I'm a Satan-worshipping demon bass player and I look it."

Beach smirked. "The world is a stage, Mr Niccals, and the courtroom even more so." She looked him up and down, rubbing her chin. "You'll need a respectable-looking business suit. The more expensive the better. If you turn up to the courtroom in jeans and a t-shirt, you may as well resign yourself to prison. Do you have a business suit?"

"No, I don't. But I know where I can get one." A gleeful look crossed his face.

"Good," said Beach. She didn't like the look of that gleeful expression but she decided not to comment. "Clean yourself up. You'll need to shower, shave and comb your hair every day of the trial. Hide that inverted cross of yours or better still, don't wear it at all."

"That's religious intolerance, that is," said Murdoc indignantly.

"Wear it then, and discuss comparative religion with the serial killers in the showers."

"OK, OK, I won't wear it. What else?"

"No smart remarks in court. No sneering. Keep your mouth shut and try to look contrite while you're in the dock. Don't slouch. Don't scratch yourself like you're doing now. Yes, I can see you Mr Niccals. Stand up straight in the dock and bow your head as if you're ashamed. There will be journalists at the courthouse. If you have your picture taken, don't mug for attention. Stay calm, and look sad. Remember, you are meant to be a responsible citizen."

"Journalists? There's going to be journalists there?" said Murdoc excitedly, leaning forward in his chair.

"There are journalists covering every trial, Mr Niccals. There's nothing special about you." Beach looked Murdoc up and down. He was looking mutinous. "This is important, Mr Niccals. How you act in the next few weeks will determine how you live the rest of your life. Are you ready to give the performance of your life in the courtroom?"

Murdoc thought about it, and a grin cracked through his angry expression. "Baby, you're talking to The Niccals here. I live to perform!"

* * *

Weeks later, Murdoc stood in the dock wearing an uncomfortable, expensive black suit, and awaiting his sentence. The past few weeks of being on his best behaviour had been difficult, and it gave him pleasure to know that his expensive suit was shoplifted, even though no one else knew.

He glanced at his lawyer, who was wearing a white wig and black robes. A pity he hadn't slept with her. He'd tried, of course. During the course of the trial preparation, he'd lolled out his tongue at her until it dangled near his shoulder and asked her out for a drink. She didn't like him, so beer goggles were his best chance. But she had declined the drink offer and every other advance he had made. In his mind, he rolled her name around. Beach became Beeyotch, which became Bitch. Yeah, damn it, only a bitch would refuse sleep with Murdoc Niccals. But she was a cunning bitch, alright, and good at her job. Murdoc had real hopes that he wouldn't end up in prison today.

Remembering where he was, he tried to look contrite and quickly glanced at Stu-Pot's parents. He had avoided looking at them during the trial. They were a sad, middle-aged couple, who for all intents and purposes had lost their son and looking at them made Murdoc feel strange. The father's shirtsleeves hid a few tattoos. He owned a fun fair. They weren't looking back at him, and that was a good thing. He let his eyes roam around the courtroom.

Then Murdoc spotted something strange. His identical twin was sitting in the gallery. Murdoc looked closer. No, not his identical twin. The man in the gallery was older. He had a mop of thick, black hair and olive skin. His nose was long and thin, and both his eyes were black, but apart from that, he was Murdoc's double in every way. He was sitting arm in arm with a woman who had Murdoc's nose and red eyes. The couple stared at Murdoc with a strange intensity. A single tear trickled down the woman's cheek.

Murdoc did not know them but they were a puzzle. He only dragged his eyes away when the judge started to deliver his sentence.

Looking down her nose at Murdoc, the judge said, "Considering your nursing training and the fact that you saved Stuart Tusspot's life after the incident, considering also that Stuart Tusspot is in a comatose state and needs round the clock care, I believe a custodial sentence would be a waste of your medical skills and add extra expense to this unfortunate affair. You are therefore sentenced to thirty thousand hours of community service, at least ten hours a week of which must be spent taking care of Stuart Tusspot..."

The judge's gavel came down and Murdoc successfully fought the urge to cheer and punch the air.

Afterwards, Murdoc followed Beach to her chambers. He wanted to thank her, and possibly steal a kiss and a bit of a grope at the same time. But the look she gave him wasn't welcoming. "What are you looking so happy for, Mr Niccals?"

"I'm not going to prison. I got the lightest sentence and it's all down to you. Fancy coming for a drink to celebrate?" He lolled his tongue out to his shoulder and wriggled it.

Beach looked amused. "It's the lightest sentence you could have gotten given the charges, Mr Niccals. But it's hardly lenient. Add up the sums before you start thinking you've gotten off easily. You'll be doing community service for years."

"Uh," said Murdoc, whose math skills extended to adding up darts scores and no further. "I got kicked out of school at eleven. Never went back. Can you give me a clue? How many years of community service does thirty thousand hours add up to?"

Beach sighed, "Fifty-seven years."

Murdoc's mouth dropped open, and a faint hiss of air came out that soon resolved into a word, "Ffffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!" As soon as he was capable of speech again he said, "You're bullshitting me." Beach shook her head solemnly and Murdoc took a deep breath, "How'd you figure that?"

"Do the sums, Mr Niccals. Oh, don't look at me like that, I'll do them for you. You must look after Stuart Tusspot for ten hours a week. That's the only set part of your community service and it means five hundred and twenty hours a year. But you've got thirty thousand hours of community service to do. At five hundred and twenty hours a year, that's over fifty-seven years of community service if you only perform the minimum ten hours per week. You're as good as married to Stuart Tusspot now. With no possibility of divorce or parole in your lifetime."

Suddenly the true horror of the sentence began to dawn on Murdoc. "In fifty-seven years, I'll be a hunched-over, white-haired bastard, in the same nursing home as Stu-Pot. And I'll _still_ have to wipe his arse!"

"Only if you're still alive by then," said Beach, who had suddenly cheered up. Now Murdoc was certain she'd never sleep with him. She turned to walk away, but Murdoc grabbed her sleeve.

"Wait, wait! Let's say I looked after Stu-Pot full time. 24/7. How many years would it take to reach thirty thousand hours then?"

"Just under three and a half years," said Beach.

"Three and a half years! That's more like it! Full time it is. Have a word with the legal services, will you?"

"But how are you going to look after Mr Tusspot full time?" asked Beach, frowning at Murdoc.

"He can come and live in my Winnebago," said Murdoc.

Looking incredulous, Beach said, "The doctor at the nursing home won't allow that. You don't have the facilities to look after a comatose person."

"I can see you're not familiar with Winnebagos. They're a palace on wheels. They've got a kitchen, a bathroom, a living room, a bedroom." A leer spread over Murdoc's face. "You should come and see my bedroom sometime. Just for Stu-Pot's sake of course. Trust me, it's plenty...big...enough."

"No, thank you," said Beach in an icy voice.

"It was worth a try," said Murdoc. "Well, can I look after Stu-Pot full time?"

"I'll make some enquiries and get back to you. Oh yes, there was another thing." Beach reached into the papers she was carrying and handed Murdoc a small slip of paper. "Your parents called at my office this morning looking for you. They said they saw an article about the trial and your picture in the paper. Did you see them at the sentencing? Your father is the spitting image of you. When he walked in, I called him Murdoc by mistake."

Murdoc said nothing, but his mismatched eyes narrowed.

"I get the impression they've been looking for you for a while," Beach went on. "Did you run away from home? They had a lot they wanted me to tell you. They're living in London, now, and they seem like a nice couple. Your Dad is a funeral director. Your Mum is a housewife. They want you to come and see them and your new sisters and brothers. Here's their number and address."

Murdoc took at the piece of paper with confusion and suspicion. "What are you talking about? This is impossible. My parents are dead. That's what my foster parents told me."

Now it was Beach's turn to look confused. "You were adopted?

"When I was only a few days old. So tell me about my parents. Are they married?"

Beach nodded.

"Married with kids. Sweet Satan!" said Murdoc. His face grew pale, with a look of anguish that nearly took Beach's breath away. Murdoc sank to the floor as his legs gave way and he crouched there, hugging and rocking himself.

"They gave me away. I thought they were dead. But they've been alive all this time. They've been married all this time and they've got kids, but they gave me away."

For once, Beach looked concerned and bent down towards the miserable figure on the floor, "Mr Niccals?"

"You want to know what my foster family were like?" Murdoc tore open the sleeve of his suit, not caring that he was destroying it. Its purpose had been served. On his forearm was a tattoo of what looked like a red squid. But the eyes of the squid were in a strange position and Beach peered at it and said, "Is that the head of Cthulhu?"

"That's right. You've read your Lovecraft. Look at what Cthulhu is covering up."

There was a massive scar under the Cthulhu tattoo. "You see it?" said Murdoc. "My brother Hannibal's steel-capped boots did this. This is what you got in my house when you liked rock music better than punk."

Clamping her hand over her mouth, Beach said, "Your foster brother did that?"

"He was a neo-Nazi punk. I've got more scars I could show you. Some from my brother, others from his mates. They used to beat me up regularly. I was a rocker and they thought I was gay as well. But I'm not gay. I'm not."

"Didn't your foster parents stop him?"

"They were dead drunk most of the time. Do you know anything about Cthulhu, Ms Beach?"

"Isn't that the giant monster that is supposed to rise from the sea, torture all humanity into insanity and then eat them?"

"That's right and it couldn't happen to a nicer guy than my brother. That's why I put a Cthulhu tattoo over the scar." Beach had never seen Murdoc look more demonic.

Feeling shaken, Beach said, "I'm sure your biological parents never intended this to happen."

"I bet they got married, had me, took one look at my eyes, devil eyes, demon child, and threw me in the garbage so they could try for some normal children." Murdoc ripped up the piece of paper with his parent's address. "I don't want to talk to them. I don't want to hear their excuses. What excuse could they possibly have to have given me away, when they didn't give away any of their later kids?"

Beach remembered the sad faces of Murdoc's parents and felt a compulsion to protect them. "You don't know what happened. Why don't you listen to their side of the story?"

"No, I won't. There's nothing that can say that will make up for what they've done. If they come sniffing around again, tell them to fuck off. They've done enough damage." Murdoc stormed out of the chambers and Beach heard the door slam with enough strength to nearly knock it off its hinges.

Watching him go, Beach wondered if she should go after him. But, as she bent down to pick up the torn shreds of paper, she thought better of it. She was really better off being shot of the entire, disastrous Niccals family.

* * *

Further Author Comments: Murdoc's father died in 1994, but I couldn't find a picture of Murdoc's Mum so I thought I'd better include his Dad.

Thanks, optical nerve, for the Beach - Beeyotch - Bitch suggestion!

It only struck me recently what that red squid tattoo on Murdoc's arm might be. I'm annoyed I didn't think of it sooner. Murdoc doesn't seem to be the type to commemorate seafood. But Cthulhu, (pronounced 'Cuth-hool-loo) the monstrous high priest of the Great Old Ones sounds right up Murdoc's alley. His original Winnebago had a bookshelf full of vintage horror novels.

In the next chapter, we get to see the comatose Stu-Pot for the first time and we find out not all zombies are dead.


	5. Home of the Living Dead

**Chapter 5 - Home of the Living Dead**

_I'm a rabbit in your headlights  
Scared of the spotlight  
You don't come to visit  
I'm stuck in this bed  
- "Rabbit in your Headlights" by UNKLE (featuring Thom Yorke)_

_I think we should get Thom and Tim Booth into a room and see who can twitch like the bigger moron and let's all have a damn good laugh  
- Murdoc from the Gorillaz Top Ten Tips For The Summer article by NME_

_Pickles. I'm allergic to them. They make my lips swell up like a Playboy model's  
- 2D from Gorillaz Q & A - 2-D: July 05_

It was the smell of the place that gave Murdoc his first clue that he was walking into Hell. He'd cultivated a suitably hellish scent in his Winnebago, but this was far worse. The smell of urine and faeces, mixed with institutional food, old, unwell, insufficiently washed bodies and disinfectant made Murdoc stop in the doorway of Alderman Bowers Nursing Home and gag.

"Disgusting, isn't it?" grumbled a voice behind him.

Murdoc turned around.

Behind him stood a tall, heavily built elderly man, grey haired and wearing a black suit with a white lab coat over the top. "It's a disgrace. This home is chronically understaffed. The folks here are lucky if they get a shower or sponge bath every second day and damn, the place smells like it too. Mind if I come through?"

Murdoc took an unwilling step forward into the home, letting the man past.

"The food is terrible too," the man went on. "There aren't enough staff to pay attention to who gets fed what and people with allergies get fed things that they shouldn't have. The kid in room 666 is allergic to pickles and someone's fed them to him again. That's why I'm here."

Murdoc tried to interject a few words into the flow of grumbling. He said, "You are?"

"I'm Dr Whinge. I'm usually at the hospital, but I get called out when they need me. They need me all the time," he grumbled.

"I'm Murdoc Niccals. I'm supposed to be looking after some little bugger called Stuart Tusspot. Do you know what room he's in?"

"Stuart Tusspot? That's the kid I'm going to see. The one with the pickle allergy."

Following the grumbling doctor deeper into Hell, Murdoc felt a cold sense of dread. He had dreamed about wandering a foggy moor handcuffed to a headless Stuart Tusspot every night for months and lately, he'd been searching through dark, hairy heath, looking for Stu-Pot's missing head. The thought of seeing Stu-Pot again in real life again was frankly eerie. And though Stu-Pot had what was left of his head in real life, there was a strong possibility that he still had that monobrow and beard, which were just as frightening.

The atmosphere of the nursing home didn't help at all. It was brightly lit, but Murdoc couldn't shake the feeling he was walking into a haunted graveyard. Faint moans or terrifying shrieks came out of the rooms as he passed. Unwatched televisions blared daytime game shows. Crabby voices babbled nonsense and shrivelled old bodies stirred under blankets.

Then Murdoc saw something that brought him up with a start. An old woman carrying a battered handbag shuffled out of a room and peered at him with dead, empty eyes. He jumped backwards in horror. "Zombie!" he shouted and scrambled around; trying to find something he could use to knock her head off.

The doctor stopped him as he was about to lift a fire axe off the wall and spoke quietly. "Not a zombie." Much louder he said, "Hello, Mrs Davies. How are you today?"

The dead eyes turned to the doctor. "My handbag. I can't find my handbag," the woman slurred.

"You're carrying it," said Murdoc, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the narrow corridor.

Mrs Davies gave Murdoc a bewildered stare, and shuffled back into her room. Murdoc could still hear her muttering, "Where is my handbag?"

"Alzheimer's patient," said Dr Whinge quietly. "The mind's gone but the body is still functioning. There are quite a few walking about in this nursing home. We call them happy wanderers."

The women didn't seem happy to Murdoc. Just empty. He averted his eyes and hurried after the doctor. "This isn't the sort of place a kid in his twenties should be," said Murdoc before he could stop himself.

The doctor gave him a wry look. "I know Mr Tusspot's case history. Weren't you the one who put him here?"

"Yeah," said Murdoc. "I put him here, but maybe I can get him out," he added.

"You can look after him full time somewhere else? Good show. I'll support you if that's what you want. This place isn't fit for a pig."

Murdoc grinned to himself. It looked like he'd be allowed to compress his fifty-seven year sentence of looking after Stu-Pot once a week into three and a half years of full time care. But his grin faded as they walked into room 666. He knew right away it wasn't going to be easy.

666 wasn't a private room. There were four other people there, all at least ninety and drooling with dementia. Their blank, bloodshot eyes followed Murdoc and his skin crawled under his grey, long sleeved t-shirt. One gave a wordless cry and stretched out a shrivelled, bluish claw as Murdoc passed, but Murdoc dodged around it.

Stu-Pot lay huddled in a dull green hospital gown, in the furthest bed from the door. The tubes and needles of Murdoc's intensive care nightmare had gone; retreated like a medical tide. Stu-Pot looked small and frail, despite being over six foot. The muscles he had had when healthy were shrinking away from lack of use, leaving him skinnier than ever. His black hair, shaved off during numerous head operations, had grown back and had rubbed into points against the pillow. The points suited him; the black beard and monobrow did not. Nor did the swollen lips. He was bruised on the arms and his demurely closed eyes were blackened.

Murdoc gazed at Stu-Pot, comparing him to the Stu-Pot of his nightmares. "He hasn't changed that much really. He still has a head like a toilet brush. How'd he get those bruises?"

Dr Whinge reached into his bag and started preparing an injection for Stu-Pot. "A nurse dropped him in the shower. I told you they couldn't get good help here." He wiped Stu-Pot's arm and started filling a syringe. "It's a pity you didn't see him when he came here a few weeks ago. The hospital kept him shaved. I'm no judge, but even I could tell he looked better without the beard."

"Why did they let it grow back?" asked Murdoc.

The doctor slid the needle into Stu-Pot's arm. "His Mum likes it. She comes in to visit him every Saturday and she kicks up a stink if anyone shaves him. I believe she's going to cut his hair tomorrow. Big mistake. All his operation scars will show." He withdrew the needle from Stu-Pot's arm and pressed his fingers and a cotton pad down on the wound he'd made.

Murdoc's hands clenched involuntarily. "Hell no! Not that mullet haircut again! If I see her cutting his hair, I'll..."

The doctor, who was putting a bandaid onto Stu-Pot's arm, made a face and interrupted. "Don't go scaring his Mum away. She's his only visitor now."

Murdoc looked at Stu-Pot and his anger faded into something like a pang of regret. "What about his friends?"

Dr Whinge closed his medical bag. "He doesn't have any. Not anymore. He used to get a few friends visiting. A man called Uncle Norm. Wasn't his real uncle, though. A few musicians from the Conservatorium used to visit too, but they haven't lately." The doctor gave Murdoc a wry look, "Being comatose puts a damper on the conversation, Mr Niccals I guess they didn't think there was much point turning up."

Murdoc squirmed.

The doctor relented. "Why don't you take Stu-Pot outside into the garden? His clothes are in his bedside table."

"OK," said Murdoc, glad to be doing something. He opened the cupboard in the bedside table and saw the clothes that Stu-Pot's mother had left. It was a chamber of horrors in there. First, he pulled out a pair of high-waisted, ugly jeans that looked like they'd come from the cheapest chain store imaginable. Then a tank top (pink - horror!) which seemed designed to show up Stu-Pot's shrinking muscles. Murdoc looked at the clothes as if they'd been wiped from the nose of the anti-fashion monster and he spoke to Stu-Pot, not caring that he wouldn't get a reply. "Stu-Pot. What the Hell are these?"

Dr Whinge chuckled. "Arguing with a comatose man, Mr Niccals?"

"The medical report said Stu-Pot was Level III on the Rancho Los Amigos Scale for the comatose. That means he's got some awareness," said Murdoc. "Haven't you, Stu-Pot," he shouted at the still figure in the bed.

Stu-Pot stirred slightly and Murdoc looked at the doctor with vindication.

"He has some awareness, I'll grant you that, but you're not going to get much conversation," said the doctor, amused.

"I can handle the lack of conversation." He turned back to Stu-Pot and spoke louder, "But pink tank tops I CAN'T handle." He waved the offending item over Stu-Pot's head. "I'm in charge now, Stu-Pot, and things are going to change around here. Starting now." Murdoc tossed the pink tank top into the bin.

"Now wait a minute," said the doctor.

"He's having all new clothes. I wouldn't be caught dead with a bloke wearing a pink tank top."

Dr Whinge frowned, "This isn't about you, Mr Niccals, it's about Mr Tusspot."

"But don't you see? This is what he WANTS," said Murdoc. "Stu-Pot ASKED me to give him a makeover. It was the last thing he said before I, err, ran him down. I guess I owe him one now." For the first time that day, Murdoc felt hopeful. There was something he could do for that miserable creature in the bed, after all.

Dr Whinge looked hard at Stu-Pot in the bed, then back at Murdoc who was running for the door with an enthusiastic look on his face. "Where are you going?"

"Just got to nip down to the chemist. Back in a minute," Murdoc called back over his shoulder.

The doctor watched him go and wondered if he'd come back.


	6. Satanic Eye For The Comatose Guy

**Chapter 6 - Satanic Eye For The Comatose Guy**_  
_

_I know you have a little life in you yet  
I know you have a lot of strength left  
I should be crying but I just can't let it show  
I should be hoping but I can't stop thinking  
-"This Woman's Work" by Kate Bush_

_I also loved Kate Bush, oh man, 70s ladies!  
- Murdoc from BBC Radio 1 Murdoc's Session Obsession_

_sam from uk asks: where does 2d get his hair dye from, or is it natural?  
2D: It's been like that ever since I came to in the Nottingham Tescos car park  
- From the Dot Music dot com interview_

_2D: I'd phone my Mum, cause she'd be really chuffed.  
Murdoc: Your Mum is a foul chuff  
Russel: Don't be dissin' a man's mother, you're way out of line  
- From the Dot Music dot com interview_

Dr Whinge had left room 666 at Alderman Bowers Nursing Home by the time Murdoc, carrying a large paper bag and grinning from ear to ear, got back from the chemist. He sauntered in, ignoring the moans of the living dead coming out of the other rooms. The nursing home still gave Murdoc the creeps, but he felt buoyed by a rush of enthusiasm. If there was one thing that annoyed him, it was being useless. Now that he had something to do for the boy he had made comatose, he felt better.

Stu-Pot lay still and bruised in the bed, wearing a dull green hospital gown. With his thick black monobrow and black beard, he looked awful, but the sight of him made Murdoc grin. Loudly tipping the contents of the bag beside Stu-Pot's blanket covered legs, Murdoc said, "Your lips aren't swollen anymore, Stu-Pot, that's a start." Stu-Pot didn't move. But Murdoc did not expect a reply and didn't need one. "You've got a long way to go before you stop looking like a toilet brush. I can do something about that." He indicated the things he had just dropped on the bed: a pair of scissors, a pair of tweezers, a packet of razors, shaving cream, hair gel, and a pot of blue hair dye. "Makeover time, Stu-Pot, just like you said you always wanted."

Murdoc flicked back the blankets and pushed his arms under Stu-Pot, to pick him up, and his nostrils were assaulted with a smell that made horrible memories come flooding back. Butterscotch! That was what he had smelled as he knelt by Stu-Pot's bleeding body in the shattered remains of Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium. Butterscotch and blood. Murdoc released Stu-Pot and stood back up, trying to catch his breath and stop himself being sick. At length, he mastered himself and stepped forward again. He wasn't normally a squeamish man. He took a deep breath, pushed his arms under Stu-Pot and lifted him, amazed at how little Stu-Pot weighed, and the way his long, lanky limbs dangled. Tucking the things he had just bought against Stu-Pot's stomach, Murdoc carried him to the bathroom. He soon had Stu-Pot, still wearing the hospital gown, balanced on a plastic bath chair, with a rolled towel under his neck and his head leaning back into the shower stream.

Hair dye first. Murdoc tore open the cardboard box and started applying it, noting how it stained his hands and swearing loudly when a pair of plastic gloves fell out of the box. Too late to use them now. The dye took twenty minutes to work and Murdoc lit a cigarette to pass the time. He lit an extra one, slipped it between Stu-Pot's still lips and watched Stu-Pot inhale the smoke and give a great cough that made the cigarette fly across the bathroom like a bullet from a gun. Murdoc retrieved the cigarette, laughing. "I'll teach you to smoke if it kills me," he said, sticking the cigarette back.

Ash was starting to drip from Stu-Pot's cigarette onto his hospital gown by the time Murdoc washed out the dye. Stu-Pot's hair was now azure blue. Murdoc rubbed a handful of hair gel through, making the spikes come back and said, "Now for your bloody monobrow. Want to know a secret, Stu-Pot?" Murdoc glanced from side to side to make sure there was no one nearby and then he leaned forward and whispered. "I've got one too. A fucking monobrow. I tried plucking the bastard a few times and I always managed to butcher it, so I grew this fringe so no one can see it. Maybe you can have a fringe too?" He stroked Stu-Pot's hair forward in a similar fringe to his own and stood back. "Nah, that's not a good look for you. Gonna have to pluck your monobrow. Rip the middle of that bugger out. Put a stake through its heart." He tossed their burned down cigarettes down the drain, grabbed the tweezers and set to work. Stu-Pot stirred and moaned slightly as Murdoc yanked out the hairs but he didn't open his eyes. Nor did he open his eyes when Murdoc put down the tweezers, admired the gap he had made, and reached for the scissors and razor to get rid of Stu-Pot's beard.

Shaving Stu-Pot was like digging up a buried statue. Murdoc had no idea what he'd find when all the hair was gone. He started on the cheekbones, trimming first with scissors, then using a razor and shaving cream to get the rest of the beard. Slowly, Stu-Pot's face began to emerge. High cheekbones, tapering down to an elfin, pointed chin. A small, flat, turned up nose. A wide, generous mouth, with straight, white teeth. Murdoc gave Stu-Pot's smooth, shaven face a final wipe with a towel to get the last of the shaving cream off, then stood back and gazed at it, mesmerized. He put the fingers of one hand under Stu-Pot's pointed chin and lifted it, looking greedily into Stu-Pot's face. Much, much better. Who would have guessed Stu-Pot was such a pretty boy under all that fuzz?

Murdoc picked up Stu-Pot and carried him back to room 666, but there was a distracting tickle in his t-shirt as he put Stu-Pot back into bed. "Damn it, Stu-Pot. I'm completely fucking itchy now. Your beard hair has gotten into my clothes," Swearing, Murdoc ran back to the bathroom, scratching his chest frantically.

* * *

When Murdoc came back, Stu-Pot had a visitor. Murdoc had seen Stu-Pot's Mum during the trial. She was tall, thin, colourless woman, whose drab, unfashionable clothes looked suspiciously like the ones Stu-Pot had worn at Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium. Now she was standing by Stu-Pot, her grey vinyl, handbag open at her feet, holding a pair of scissors. One of Stu-Pot's pointed, blue locks were inside the jaws of the scissors and the jaws were closing.

For the first time since the ram raid, time slowed down. Murdoc heard someone shouting, "Noooooo!" and didn't realise it was him. He rushed at Stu-Pot's mother, nearly crash tackled her, and pushed the scissors away just in time. "Don't give him a mullet!" he bellowed, and Stu-Pot's mother cringed, then caught herself and replied angrily.

"Murdoc Niccals. What are you doing here?" Her voice dripped venom.

"I'm carrying out my sentence, of course. Why do you think I'd be here?"

"To cause trouble, as usual. Did YOU do this?" She indicated her son's blue hair.

Murdoc leered, and flicked his long tongue at her. "Sure! Improvement, don't you think?" He looked down at Stu-Pot. It really was an improvement, but he didn't get much time to look before Stu-Pot's mother snarled at him.

"It's disgraceful. He looks like a young punk. The administration here KNOWS I don't want my son shaved and as for what you've done to his hair." For a moment, she was too angry to speak. "I'm going to report you. We'll see if they let you near my son after that."

Sweet Satan, give me strength, thought Murdoc. I wonder if this will stop me getting the 24/7 care rights? Aloud he said, "Your son asked me to give him a makeover when I met him at the organ place, so I did. Nobody's going to cut his hair without my permission. He belongs to me now. I'm taking care of him."

"He's my son! I've cut his hair since he was born."

Murdoc hovered possessively over Stu-Pot, like a raven over road kill, and bared his pointed, green teeth in a sneer. "Sweet Satan, that mullet was your fault? You left him with a monobrow? No wonder he doesn't have any girls visiting. No, leave his fucking hair alone. Don't you dare point those scissors at me. His hair is staying long. And blue!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Murdoc could see Mrs Davies, the bewildered happy wanderer with Alzheimer's, drawn by the commotion, creeping into the room behind Stu-Pot's Mum. "Where's my handbag?" Mrs Davies slurred.

Stu-Pot's Mum glanced over her shoulder with annoyance, "I wouldn't know, dear," she snapped and turned back to Murdoc. "I'm going to give the nursing home administration a call on my phone right now. You've ruined my son! As if running over him and putting him in a coma wasn't enough." She reached down to grab her phone out of her handbag, but her hand brushed the cold, tiled floor instead and she spluttered, "What the? Where's my handbag?"

Murdoc was shuddering with suppressed laughter. He had one hand behind his back. "Don't look at me!" he said, his mismatched eyes glittering with amusement.

Stu-Pot's Mum's eyes narrowed in fury. "Give it back!" she cried and she ran around the side of the bed to see what Murdoc had concealed behind his back. She tugged at his arm, but it was empty. "What have you done with it?" she demanded.

Murdoc grinned in delight. "I didn't touch it!" He indicated the door.

Stu-Pot's Mum turned frantically and caught sight of Mrs Davies hurrying through the door with a grey vinyl handbag over her shoulder. "Wait! My dear! That's not your handbag!" she cried and ran after her.

Mrs Davies paused by the door and her blank eyes looked at Stu-Pot's Mum uncomprehendingly. "Handbag," she said.

"That's not your handbag, that's my handbag. Give it back, dear." Stu-Pot's Mum sidled up to Mrs Davies and made a grab for her property.

A look of confused alarm came over Mrs Davies face and she turned and ran for it, with Stu-Pot's Mum in hot pursuit.

Murdoc saw his chance. He picked up Stu-Pot and ran out of the room and down the corridor. Behind him, he could Mrs Davies shouting, "Mugger! Help, I'm being mugged! She's stolen my handbag!" while Stu-Pot's Mum remonstrated with her. The nursing home administration staff were rushing down the corridor to separate them.

Pausing only to grab a wheelchair and blanket out of a cupboard, while the nursing home staff were distracted, Murdoc ran for the door with Stu-Pot. He was laughing so hard that he nearly doubled over at one point. "I don't think administration is going to be too willing to listen to your Mum after she mugged one of their patients," he said to Stu-Pot. "Looks like your new haircut is safe."

Stu-Pot, sitting in the wheelchair, looked as blank as Mrs Davies but much prettier. Much, much prettier. Murdoc nearly tripped over his feet when he got another glance at the high cheekbones, the wide, pretty mouth and the small, snub nose that had been hidden before in hair and he felt a rush of exhilaration. "You look great, Stu-Pot. There's only one more thing I need to do." He eyed the blue dye stained hospital gown. "Gotta get you some clothes."

Murdoc lit a cigarette for himself and stuck another lit cigarette between Stu-Pot's lips. Stu-Pot only coughed slightly this time, and the cigarette stuck rakishly to his bottom lip.

* * *

Two hours later later, Murdoc and his mate, Stumbo, who was pushing Stu-Pot in the wheelchair, covered by a blanket, strolled towards the exit at the nearby mall.

Stumbo wasn't much to look at and gave the impression of being badly drawn. He had a big, oval head, with sparse, short hair and small but sticking out ears, small, squinty eyes and most obviously, two large, uneven fangs that stuck out of his mouth. His left arm was larger than the other, and his skin was ghostly pale. Poor Stumbo, thought Murdoc, if he'd had an artist, that artist should have been slapped upside the head. But Stumbo was an OK guy. Certainly more loyal that that nasty bad boy crew that had deserted him on the night of the ram raid. Murdoc hadn't heard from them since and he sometimes wished he'd dobbed them in.

An unpaid-for tie swung, very obviously, from Murdoc's hands. The stocky, red-haired security guard standing near the entrance frowned when she saw Murdoc, but she was distracted for a moment when she saw Stu-Pot.

"Oh, you're an angel! What's your name?" she said.

"He doesn't talk," said Stumbo. His voice had a strong Northern accent and seemed just as ill formed as the rest of him. "He's comatose, he is."

"What a shame. He's lovely." Her eyes flicked towards Murdoc. "I know you. I got you for shop lifting last month. Don't think I can't see you there with that tie. Have you paid for it?"

"Let's just see if I've paid for it," Murdoc sneered, flicking the tie at the door. The alarm went off instantly. "Nope, doesn't look like I've paid for it." He gave a growling laugh, "Oh dearrrrrr. I'll have to put it back."

"You'd better step into my office," said the security guard. "I bet that tie isn't the only thing you've got."

While Murdoc and the security guard argued, Stumbo pushed Stu-Pot in his wheelchair out the door.

* * *

Murdoc was in a foul mood when he got back to the Winnebago. Stumbo and Stu-Pot were waiting inside. "Bitch," he said. "She wanted to strip search me but she wouldn't do it herself. Probably a lesbian."

"Did you get charged?" said Stumbo.

"Naah. They couldn't find anything else," said Murdoc. A cheeky grin crossed his face as he looked at Stu-Pot. "They were looking in the wrong place." He lifted the blanket from Stu-Pot and plonked him unceremoniously on the bed. Underneath Stu-Pot were thousands of pounds of clothes and shoes, their price tags still on. "Oldest trick in the book," Murdoc chuckled. "Set the alarm off and distract the security guard, then get the rest of the gear out. The alarm can't go off twice."

Stumbo chuckled, "It was smart, Muds. Real smart. But I was worried for a bit when the guard started checking him out." He prodded Stu-Pot.

"I wasn't worried. She wasn't suspicious. Stu-Pot's just a bird magnet. Did you see the stares he got when we wheeled him through the mall?"

Looking a bit sad, Stumbo said, "Yeah. Lucky bugger."

"Jealous of a comatose guy, Stumbo?"

Stumbo didn't reply but scratched the toe of his dirty sneakers against the carpet.

"We can use him to pull birds, Stumbo. I'll get him dressed, then we can go to the pub and you'll see."

Dressing Stu-Pot proved difficult. The long sleeved t-shirt went on without too much trouble, but the tight jeans were a problem, as they had to fit over Stu-Pot's adult nappies. Murdoc trimmed the nappies down with a knife, so that they didn't show over the waistband of the jeans. He looked into Stu-Pot's motionless, bruised face, as he ran the knife around his belly, slicing the nappy, not touching or breaking the skin. There was something strangely arousing about running a knife so close to that trusting, still body that Murdoc was glad when Stumbo made a disgusted noise. "Can't believe he's wearing nappies."

"Well of course he has to wear nappies. He's hardly going to wake up and ask to go to the toilet, then go back to being comatose again," Murdoc grumbled.

"That's just foul. You're going to be changing some bloke's nappies for the rest of your life?" said Stumbo.

"Three and a half years, if I get full time," said Murdoc. He stood up and put the knife away. "It's not so bad." He looked at the nappies thoughtfully. "They're clean now, but he'll probably need changing in a few hours. I didn't bring any spare nappies so I'll have to go back to the home after we've been to the pub." He slipped a pair of red socks onto Stu-Pot's feet, then a pair of red Converse sneakers, not bothering to do up the shoelaces. "How does he look?"

"Pretty. The lucky bastard."

"Cheer up, Stumbo. He's going to get you laid!"

* * *

The Arms wasn't exactly the most welcoming pub in the world. No sooner had Murdoc and Stumbo stepped over the threshold, carrying Stu-Pot between them, when the bartender pointed a thick finger at Stu-Pot. "He's drunk already. I won't sell him any more."

"Fine," said Murdoc through gritted teeth. "I wasn't planning to buy him a drink anyway." Stu-Pot's limp arm was draped around Murdoc's shoulder and his Converse sneakers were dragging on the ground. Murdoc was tempted to walk straight out, but The Arms had a lot of female patrons and every one of their heads had turned when Stu-Pot entered the room.

Murdoc and Stumbo sat down in a corner table, with a long, padded seat. No sooner had they set Stu-Pot down on the slippery upholstery, than he began to slide down to the floor. Murdoc grabbed him just in time, pulled him upright and set him back against the leather. He immediately began to slide again, and Murdoc swore and stuck an arm around his shoulders to steady him. Stu-Pot's head came to rest on Murdoc's shoulder.

Stumbo watched them with a look of worry on his face. "Muds, I don't know how to say this. But you both look," Stumbo winced, "I'm so sorry mate, don't hold this against me. You both look gay."

Glaring at Stumbo, Murdoc growled, "I'm not gay."

"Yeah, I know, Muds. But when you're cuddling him like that," Stumbo squirmed in his seat.

"I'm not cuddling him." Murdoc released Stu-Pot, who slid down, until his head was resting in Murdoc's lap.

Looking even more uncomfortable, Stumbo said, "I hate to point this out, Muds, but that looks even gayer. Really gay. We're talking Tinky Winky purple handbag Village People gay when Stu-Pot's face down in your lap in the middle of a pub."

Murdoc was about to reply when a female voice cut across the table. "Hello love, you look like you need to sober up a bit. Want a cup of tea?" Then came the sound of another female voice, giggling. He looked up. There were two girls in short skirts and smeared makeup standing over him. They weren't looking at him, but at Stu-Pot. He hoisted Stu-Pot's limp body and answered for him.

"Thanks ladies. Stu-Pot here needs to sober up but Stumbo and I don't. If you're buying, we'll have two pints."

* * *

Later on, as the two girls left the Winnebago after an energetic sex session with both Murdoc and Stumbo, Murdoc reflected how useful Stu-Pot was while comatose. The girls had bought endless cups of tea for Stu-Pot, in a futile attempt to wake him up, and plenty of pints for Murdoc and Stumbo. The girls had struggled to get Stu-Pot to drink but it hadn't stopped them trying and they were keen to go back to the Winnie and tuck Stu-Pot into bed. Then Murdoc and Stumbo tucked themselves in with them. Easy!

"Gotta get Stu-Pot back to the loony bin," said Murdoc to Stumbo, who was doing up his fly.

"I'll see you later, then. I need a toilet anyway. I finished all Stu-Pot's cups of tea and they've caught up with me," said Stumbo. He paused by the door. "Great night. Call me next time you go to the pub. Bring Stu-Pot." He staggered out of the Winnebago and into the grey twilight outside.

* * *

Night never came to the Alderman Bowers Nursing Home. Fluorescent lighting shone continually, sometimes flickering where a bulb was about to break.

Murdoc carried Stu-Pot into the shower and pulled off his new clothes. His nappy needed changing and Murdoc figured he needed a shower anyway. Naked, Stu-Pot was painfully thin. His hip bones stuck through his skin like the figure of Christ in an old painting and his ribs showed. But his skin was soft, luminous and pliable as a young girl. His blue hair shone next to his pale skin and his natural, sweet smell no longer bothered Murdoc. The sight of Stu-Pot's nipples, hardening in the cool bathroom air, caused a tightening sensation in Murdoc's groin. He averted his eyes, and sponged Stu-Pot down, trying not to look.

Murdoc felt a strange melancholy, as he bathed Stu-Pot, and he put it down to having just had sex. But the sad feeling grew as he towelled Stu-Pot dry, dressed him in a nappy and another dull green hospital gown and carried him back to room 666. By the time he reached the bed, it was all he could do to sit down on it, with Stu-Pot in his arms.

Everything he'd done today had been pointless. He'd started the day thinking he could make up for what he had done. He'd had the misguided notion that he could give Stu-Pot a makeover, and make everything alright again. But things weren't better, they were worse.

Because Stu-Pot was beautiful now. Exquisite. A damaged angel. No longer a toilet brush lying in a bed. There was something about him. The way his hair rubbed into soft, blue spikes. The few whiskers on his upper lip that had survived the razor. The pointed chin and high cheekbones that Murdoc wanted to reach out and touch.

The makeover had only highlighted Murdoc's crime. He'd as good as killed Stu-Pot, it was as simple as that. Worse than killed him. At least if Stu-Pot were dead it would be all over. But this half-life he'd given Stu-Pot was worse than death. Murdoc could see the years passing Stu-Pot by, without any change or healing. He could see Stu-Pot's future life, a grim, twilight existence, caught forever between life and death. An adult crushed back into an infant, needing to be fed, changed and washed, until death finally released him. There was no hope. And it was all Murdoc's fault.

Murdoc started to tremble. He remembered how Stu-Pot had screamed, when he still had a voice and a mind and a life. Screamed as the tyre went over his head. A musical scream at a volume that had nearly blown out Murdoc's eardrums. Stu-Pot had a trained voice, all right. All those years at the Conservatory on the scholarship, studying keyboards and voice had given him the most powerful voice Murdoc had ever heard. But the voice was lost now.

Murdoc had done some terrible things in his time. He had set fire to cats while drunk. He'd taken every drug under the sun. He had used everyone and anyone he met. But running over Stu-Pot was unquestionably the worse thing he'd ever done. Murdoc rocked on the bed, burning with the feeling that he'd ruined someone else's life worse than he'd ruined his own.

Murdoc lifted Stu-Pot, buried his face in his warm throat, and felt the pulse there. He fought a strange urge, an urge that he hadn't had in many years. His eyes prickled and he shuddered, stifling a sob. But there was no need for secrecy. He had this ward to himself. The other occupants were all asleep, and even if they weren't they were mad enough not to realise what he was doing.

It all washed over him. The ram raid, the sad, bruised, dead-alive body in his arms. The guilt. Oh Sweet Satan, the guilt.

A choking sob broke from Murdoc, then another. He pressed his face into Stu-Pot's throat for a moment, then he sat up, held Stu-Pot and rocked him, sobbing openly. His tears fell on Stu-Pot's face and trickled there, as if Stu-Pot were crying himself.

At that most hopeless moment, Murdoc heard a soft noise and felt Stu-Pot move in his arms. He looked down. A sob died in Murdoc's throat as Stu-Pot's eyes opened. He had mismatched eyes. One a clear, healthy white. The other a sickly, fractured black. Both focused and looked deep into Murdoc's eyes, with a gentle expression of curiosity.

Murdoc felt a powerful connection. Felt the same way a mother, looking at her new born baby feels, when the baby looks at her for the first time and becomes a little person, someone to love. Hardly daring to breath, Murdoc whispered, "Stu-Pot? Stu-Pot? I'm Murdoc Niccals. I'm looking after you."

Murdoc's words seemed to sink in. Stu-Pot smiled; a heartbreaking sight. He moaned faintly, as if trying to talk. But then his eyes become unfocused, "Stu-Pot?" said Murdoc, but Stu-Pot's eyes were closing, as if he were falling asleep again. A deep sleep, but not a hopeless one.

Murdoc sat with Stu-Pot in his arms for a long time, just looking at his face, memorising it, watching it on the off chance that Stu-Pot would open his eyes again. But Stu-Pot seemed fast asleep, and before long Murdoc felt his own eyes trying to close. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so sleepy. He was tempted to lie down beside Stu-Pot and put his arms around him, but the thought of what the morning staff would say if they caught him in bed with Stu-Pot was enough to stop him. He lay Stu-Pot down, pulled the covers over and sat down on a chair next to the bed, too tired to walk to the Winnebago. He was asleep in moments.

In his dreams, he was lost on the foggy moor again, handcuffed to the body in his arms, but everything was different. The body was no longer headless and terrifying. It was merely Stu-Pot, wrapped in the green blanket and sleeping like an angel, with his head resting, warm and comfortable, on Murdoc's shoulder. His skin shone with a faint, white radiance that lit up the fog, and made it a pretty white, rather than eerie, grey. In the light, Murdoc found that he was no longer lost. He was standing on a well-beaten track over the moor and he followed it, holding Stu-Pot in his arms. Something told him that when he reached the end of the track, Stu-Pot would wake. He strode along the path with a feeling of joy and purpose.

But in his dreams, strange eyes, one black, one white opened in front of him, and smiled at him, he felt the soft skin and beating heart against him, rubbing against him with the rhythm of his walking, and in the morning he had to dash to the bathroom and clear up an unexpected mess in his jeans before anyone saw.


	7. Life's Refugee

**Chapter 7 - Life's Refugee **

_I was raised at The Red Cross Institute for Battered Children and consider myself one of Life's refugees  
- Franko B. from "The Customised Body" by Housk Randall_

_I reached puberty when I was eight and I lost my virginity to a dinner lady at nine and I've been in a bad mood ever since  
- Murdoc from Dazed and Confused_

_Listen, no one looks up to a man whose down. I know it's cool to be depressed and all that but please don't share it with the rest of the class. Bottle it up. There's no point walking around with a face like a smacked arse. Laugh and the whole world laughs with you, cry and you're on your own, you miserable little bugger  
- Murdoc from Gorillaz Top Ten Tips For The Summer Article by NME_

_The nice thing about being a celebrity now is that if you bore the crap out of people, well you just think it's their fault  
- Murdoc from We Are The Dury_

The mother, sitting on a sofa, and peacefully breast feeding her baby in the mother's room at Nottingham Mall, heard the demon approaching before she saw him. She heard heavy footsteps, and a growling voice outside, and then the door of the mother's room was kicked open by a Cuban heeled boot.

The demon stood in the doorway, a slim monster, with mismatched eyes, sharp, green teeth, and a mop of thick black hair. He was carrying a young, blue-haired man, whose long limbs were clad in jeans, a red and blue long sleeved t-shirt and blue Converse sneakers with the laces undone. A cigarette stuck to the blue-haired man's lower lip, his eyes were closed and his limbs dangled and swung as the demon carried him in his arms.

The mother hugged her baby to her chest and sat back in her chair as the demon passed her by. He glanced at her. "Hi there," he rasped casually, his voice just as gritty as his appearance. She caught a whiff of cigarettes and butterscotch.

The mother could only nod in reply. She watched in astonishment as the demon opened the nappy change table and laid the blue-haired man down with practised ease. The table bent slightly with the strain of holding a six foot man instead of a baby, but it did not break. The blue-haired man did not even stir as he was laid down. There was a smile on his face, the mother noted, as if he were in the middle of a happy dream. He really was gorgeous, with his pointed chin and turned up nose, but there was a strange stillness about him. He remained motionless even as the demon popped the fly button on his jeans and pulled down the zipper.

The mother couldn't remain silent longer. "Ah, excuse me. This is the mother's room," she said.

"I know," said the demon. He was pulling the blue-haired man's jeans down without the slightest bit of embarrassment or concern, as if he did it many times a day. The mother could see a white, fraying, trimmed down disposable nappy underneath the blue-haired man's jeans.

The demon tore the nappy open and the mother averted her eyes. The blue-haired man was anything but a baby underneath that nappy. Her jaw dropped open. "What the…?"

"He needs to be changed," said the demon.

"Can't he just go to the toilet like everyone else?" said the mother, greatly scandalised.

"Oh, I wish." The demon turned and gave her a wry look. "Stu-Pot here is comatose," he said. He rolled up and tossed the nappy into the bin with a casual flick, and he reached into his bag and pulled out a box of baby wipes and started using them.

"He's in a coma? Shouldn't he be in hospital?" said the mother.

"He's in a nursing home usually, but not for much longer. I'm going to take him on a holiday around Britain if I get full time custody. It'll be fun for him," said the demon. He pulled a fresh nappy out of his bag and he slipped it under Stu-Pot's hips.

The mother looked at Stu-Pot's still face. "How can you tell if he's having fun?"

"You can tell if you spend enough time with him," said the demon. He reached into his bag again and this time brought out a large knife. The mother gasped, but the demon merely used the knife to cut away the excess nappy before he pulled up and refastened Stu-Pot's jeans. He tossed the knife back into his bag and gave the mother a cheeky grin, and poked out his abnormally long tongue.

The mother's shoulders, which had tensed up when the demon first entered, started to loosen up. She was a bit put off by the tongue, but no longer by the other things she had seen. She rocked her baby and said, "You're a good friend to him."

"I've heard that before," said the demon. Having finished changing Stu-Pot, the demon hoisted him back into arms, picked up his bag and headed for the door.

"He must have been your best friend in the world before he got sick," she said, her voice full of sympathy.

The demon gave a wicked chuckle, "No, honey. I'm just the guy who ran over him."

The door closed behind the demon with a thud and the mother made a face as if she had sucked on a lemon.

* * *

"He's your best friend, isn't he?" said Dr Whinge. 

Murdoc paused. He had been rearranging Stu-Pot's closet, now full of fashionable clothes, and chatting away to the silent body lying on the bed about their travel plans. Stu-Pot's eyes were closed but there was a smile on his face, as he often had now when Murdoc was speaking. "No, he's not my best friend, doc. I'm Murdoc Niccals. I can do better than befriending a bloody vegetable," said Murdoc indignantly.

Dr Whinge only smiled.

"Yes, I can do better!" said Murdoc, annoyed. "Just because I look after him doesn't mean he's my best mate or anything. You sound like that woman in the shopping mall today." He mimicked a sympathetic, female voice, "He must have been your best friend in the world!" Murdoc went back to his own raspy voice, "Or that vicar in the car park last week." Murdoc mimicked a doddery old man, "Such friendship I have never seen! God will smile on you young man!" His voice became his own again, "I get this several times a day when ever we go out. So many people telling me what a lovely guy I am. It's sickening!"

Dr Whinge laughed.

"You're all sentimental, that's what you all are. Or maybe just mental," Murdoc waved a sock at Dr Whinge in what he hoped was a threatening manner. The fact that it was one of Stu-Pot's Mum's choices and was pink with bunny rabbits ruined the edge somewhat.

"So you're saying that you don't think you're capable of looking after Stu-Pot full time, am I hearing this correctly, Mr Niccals? " said Dr Whinge slyly.

"I..." Murdoc began and stopped himself. "Very funny, doc. Of course I can take care of Stu-Pot full time. I just," He took a deep breath, "I just don't like it when people are mushy about it."

"Fine," said Dr Whinge, his tone business-like. "Because I'm going to give you custody."

Murdoc punched a victorious fist at the ceiling and whooped.

"With conditions," said Dr Whinge firmly.

Murdoc looked at him and lowered his arm, "What conditions?" he said.

"You need to keep in contact. I want to see Mr Tusspot every few days to check on him," said the doctor.

"Ah, but doc, that's not fair! It means we can't go far," said Murdoc, his voice a disappointed wail.

The doctor rubbed his mouth, thinking. "Very well, if you can't show me Mr Tusspot in person, show me his photograph. Send me a photo of him every few days, so I can see that you're treating him well."

Murdoc looked mutinous for a moment, then laughed. "That sounds like the trick with the garden gnomes," he said.

"What trick with the garden gnomes?" asked the doctor.

"You steal a garden gnome from someone's garden when you're about to go on holiday and you take it with you. Then you send letters from the garden gnome back to his owner, and photos of the gnome on landmarks like he's a tourist or something," said Murdoc.

"I've heard of that," said Dr Whinge. "I've often wondered how people manage. Garden gnomes are big, heavy things. I've got one called Bertie and..." The leer that spread over Murdoc's face told the doctor he had just made a tactical error. "No, Murdoc. Don't steal my garden gnome."

Murdoc looked innocent. As innocent as a demon bass player with green, sharp teeth and mismatched eyes can look. "I'd never steal your garden gnome, doc. But they're funny things, those garden gnomes. They've got minds of their own..."

* * *

Dr Whinge's garden gnome went missing that evening. Dr Whinge was taking a constitutional in his garden, half hoping to catch Murdoc in the act, and noticed that Murdoc had been too quick for him. Bertie had gone. Only a clear patch of earth showed where he had once stood. "Well, he'd better take good care of him," Dr Whinge grumbled to himself. 

The first photograph arrived two days later. It was a picture of Bertie, now sporting Murdoc's inverted gold cross around his neck. Murdoc was in the picture too, propping up a limp but smiling Stu-Pot who looked perfectly healthy. One of Murdoc's arms was outside the photograph. He had taken the photo at arm's length. A blonde woman with chin length hair also beamed at the camera. She had one arm around Stu-Pot and they were all sitting in a pub, which Dr Whinge recognised as one he'd visited in Nottingham.

_Dear Dr Whinge_, said the letter that came with the photograph. _Bertie is a stupid name. My name is now Bertram of the Worms and I am joining the Church of Satan just as soon as I am eighteen. Today we stopped at a pub in Nottingham called The Cock and that blonde woman, Cheryl, in the photo came up to us. She sat with us for a while then she introduced us to her friends who were all adult baby fetishists. They thought Murdoc was like them 'cos Cheryl saw Murdoc getting kicked out of the Lord Nelson for changing Stu-Pot in the toilets. Those baby lovers were sick bastards and Murdoc had a good laugh at them but when they wanted to put a nappy on him we all got out of there fast. Here is a photo of me wearing a nappy. I'm going to be an adult baby fetishist because I am one sick (and heavy) bit of painted concrete._

_Hail Satan!_

_Bertram of the Worms_

Dr Whinge looked at the second photo in the envelope and laughed.

* * *

Bertram of the Worm's letters and photographs came thick and fast over the next few weeks. Despite himself, Dr Whinge found himself looking forward to the mail. 

It was difficult to know what to expect. One day, a handful of sand dropped out of the envelope. The trio had spent a few days on a Cornish beach and had a photo of the local ladies burying Murdoc, Stu-Pot and Bertram up to their necks in sand to prove it. Bertram complained that the Winnebago was now full of sand, trodden into the carpet and lurking in the bed. Another day, and the trio were being pushed down the narrow cobblestone streets of Plymouth in a shopping trolley. A few days later, they were perched on the ruins of King Arthur's castle at Tintagel. Stu-Pot's hair was a lighter blue than the deep blue sea behind.

When photos of Dartmoor arrived, Murdoc had pasted his face over the faces of the sheep in the photo and Bertram noted, They have sheep here. Murdoc is having a ball! Then photographs from Scotland started showing up, with Stu-Pot and Bertram propped up against a cairn at the top of a Scottish mountain, and fog as the only view. Another sequence showed Murdoc going for a swim at a Scottish beach, posing for the camera in a tiger striped thong swimming costume, running down to the water, and leaping out right away with frozen bollocks.

And always, there were photos of the trio grinning as they sat in pubs, with girls in their laps, sitting beside them, or on one occasion, pretending to breast feed Bertram of the Worms.

* * *

Dr Whinge suspected that he was only hearing a few of the stories Murdoc could have told about his holiday and he was right. Murdoc had found that travelling without someone else to watch over Stu-Pot could sometimes be a problem. 

Murdoc was standing at the bar of a pub in Brighton when he heard a woman's piercing scream behind him. "He's dead! He's dead!"

Murdoc turned around and a cold chill went through his body as he saw the woman standing over Stu-Pot, with both her hands to her mouth, screaming in terror. Stu-Pot had fallen off his chair and was face down on the floor. Fear gripped Murdoc, a fear so intense he didn't even realise he had dropped his drink as he pushed his way through the muttering crowd to Stu-Pot's side. He rolled Stu-Pot into the recovery position - he still felt warm - and picked up his hand to feel his wrist pulse. It was slow but strong and so was his breathing. The overwhelming panic turned to anger.

"Why did you have to scare me like that?" Murdoc snapped at the woman. "He's not dead."

"He won't wake up," the woman blubbered.

"He's comatose. He's a perfectly healthy comatose man and you're an idiot," said Murdoc.

They both got thrown out of that pub but Murdoc didn't care. A quiet night in with Stu-Pot was just what he needed after a scare like that.

Quiet nights in with Stu-Pot were a strange affair but were becoming increasingly common as Murdoc found that he couldn't live without them. He'd buy a few bottles of red wine, drive the Winnebago to a secluded location, and proceed to get drunk and maudlin with Stu-Pot by his side. Deep into the second bottle, he would start telling Stu-Pot about his past. How he'd been adopted out as a baby to alcoholic foster parents who had neglected him and had an older son, Hannibal, who took it upon himself to beat Murdoc to a pulp whenever he had the chance. How he'd been the only child in his class to reach puberty at the age of eight, and how he'd felt like a dirty freak, with hair growing all over his body, bits of him that moved on their own, and strange urges when the rest of the class were still prepubescent children. How he'd lost his virginity at nine to one of the dinner ladies, who had molested him for at least a year before that, and how he'd been in a bad mood ever since. How, once he'd reached puberty, his older brother, who had become a skin head, had decided that Murdoc had homosexual tendencies that needed to be beaten out of him, as often as possible.

He blamed it all on his biological parents. Even now, he couldn't believe they had dumped him as a baby, though they had kept their other children. What possible excuse could they have had? What a foul little devil spawn baby he must have been.

It was a litany of woe that Murdoc had never told another living soul. What would have been the point? The truth made him vulnerable. Satan only knew how the nasty bad boy crew would have blackmailed him had they known about the gay beatings inflicted by Hannibal. They wouldn't have sympathised, they'd have probably have joined in. And Murdoc was concerned about boring people. He'd always tried to be the bad boy, the entertaining guy, staying in the sparkling shallows of life and never getting in deeper than adding up a darts score. Do not tell your troubles to others unless you are sure they want to hear them. That was the second Satanic Rule of the Earth. Murdoc stuck to that rule religiously and had never told anyone his troubles until Stu-Pot came along.

After he had poured out all his troubles to Stu-Pot it was time to go to bed. It was a drunkenly domestic procedure. He would stagger about the Winnebago, and put pyjamas on himself and Stu-Pot, brush their teeth and put the two of them into his double bed. He'd fall asleep immediately and wake in the morning, with Stu-Pot's warm body in his arms and a headache that threatened to burst his head apart.

Murdoc slept with Stu-Pot every night. After all, he rationalised, he couldn't be sure if Stu-Pot was warm enough any other way. He was hardly about to wake up and announce that he needed another blanket. If Murdoc had managed to lure a woman to his Winnebago, he would kick her out when he finished with her or she would leave herself the moment she started sobering up. She would go out the door, and he would slide Stu-Pot into his bed, before the sheets had a chance to go cold. He never had sex with him. Stu-Pot was a man. Hannibal was wrong about Murdoc being gay, Murdoc would insist when deep into the third bottle of red wine. The memories of being kicked by Hannibal's steel capped boots arose whenever he thought about sex with men.

Besides, sex with Stu-Pot would have been a bit like porking a blow up doll, with the added problem of being arrested if he were caught doing it. Murdoc already owned a wide and varied selection of blow up dolls, from the sturdy 'Love You Long Time' model to the 'Lolita' version whose tits got hot if Murdoc remembered to put in the batteries. Stu-Pot was much better as a listening partner than a sex partner. Though more than once, as Murdoc lay by Stu-Pot's side in the bed, listening to his breathing, having failed to pull a woman that night, he wondered what it would be like to make love with Stu-Pot. But Stu-Pot would have to wake from his coma first and Murdoc was beginning to find himself hoping that that would never happen. Who would he talk to?

* * *

One evening, while stacking his dishwasher, Dr Whinge heard a wicked, familiar chuckle outside in his garden. He put down the dish he was holding right away and ran for the garden, but he was too late to catch Murdoc. Even as he opened the door, he heard the sound of the Winnebago driving away. 

Bertie, or rather, Bertram of the Worms, was back in his old position, now sporting black robes, an adult nappy and a set of red, plastic devil horns. The doctor wasn't sure whether to get angry or laugh. He settled on the latter. "Damn you, Murdoc," he chuckled.

Dr Whinge heard a gasp from the garden next door. His neighbour had stuck her head over the wall between their gardens and had caught sight of the prodigal garden gnome. "Dr Whinge," she cried. "What's happened to Bertie? "

Dr Whinge, stood by his Satan worshipping, adult baby fetishist garden gnome and gave a little shrug. "Bertram of the Worms has been keeping bad company," he said. "But he had a really good holiday. I've seen the photos."


	8. Satanic Convention

**Chapter 8 - Satanic Convention**

Note: I had to censor this part to make it fit to post to Fanfiction dot net. The uncensored fanfic can be found on the Gorillaz Adult Live Journal. See my profile for the link.

_Founded on April 30, 1966 c.e. by Anton Szandor LaVey, we are the first above-ground organization in history openly dedicated to the acceptance of Man's true nature—that of a carnal beast, living in a cosmos which is permeated and motivated by the Dark Force which we call Satan  
- Welcome message on the official Church of Satan site_

_The boy is a pretty dullard who is nothing but a pawn in my master plan. Hail Satan!  
- Murdoc from the Austrian Youth Magazine interview_

_This is me, in my finery, totally butt naked  
- Murdoc from The Morning Alternative Interview_

Murdoc knew this bleak, grey moor well. How many times had he walked it in his dreams, cocooned in blowing fog, with Stu-Pot's comatose body in his arms?

But Murdoc was awake.

The Winnebago bumped and jarred its way along the dirt track, the white radiance of headlights pushing back the foggy gloom in the same way that the light from Stu-Pot's body had in his dreams. Murdoc's knuckles were white on the steering wheel as he drove past a standing stone and watched it disappear in the rear vision mirror into the fog. He had walked past it in his dreams the night before.

"This is creepy shit, mate. You've dreamed about this moor?" said Stumbo. He gave a nervous twitch, which made the front seat of the Winnie squeak. The speed he had just taken was kicking in, and despite the chill, Murdoc could see sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Murdoc looked at his, pale, badly-drawn friend and decided not to tell him the satanic convention was being held on the destination he had been walking towards in his dreams for so many months. In fact, wished he hadn't told him anything. "Maybe I'm kidding," he said.

Stumbo relaxed, though his legs still jiggled, "Oh, that's alright then. You had me going there, Muds."

Murdoc sighed and turned back to the road, trying to quell a growing sense of unease. He was wearing his best satanic convention-going finery: a long, black velvet cloak, tied at the neck with a silver skull clasp and slightly stained with semen from the last time he had run out of tissues. A silver skull ring gleamed on one finger. Black jeans, polished black boots and a black long-sleeved shirt completed the outfit. His inverted, gold cross swung from his neck.

Stu-Pot was lying, comatose as usual, between Murdoc and Stumbo on the passenger seat. His hair was dyed a particularly bright blue for the occasion and rubbed into soft, blue spikes. He wore black jeans, black boots and a black t-shirt with a red baphomet (the symbol of Satan, an inverted pentacle, with a goat's head inside), a silver baphomet ring on his finger and a silver spiked black leather dog collar around his neck, with smaller ones around his wrists. Murdoc took his eyes off the road for just long enough to glance at Stu-Pot and pat his still body. As far as Murdoc was concerned, Stu-Pot had never looked better. He was certain to attract the ladies tonight, and that meant Murdoc would score. Murdoc wriggled his long tongue in anticipation and chuckled to himself, trying to will away the feeling that he was driving towards a point of spiritual reckoning.

Spiritual reckoning or not, it wasn't the first satanic convention Murdoc had attended. They were held in gothic mansions or abandoned parks. Low rent wiccan conventions, every one of them, with a few satanic overtones, and attended by bubbly , or more commonly, fashionably depressed airhead, crystal-worshipping, incense-burning, black clothed, gothic, promiscuous bimbos. It was the last three aspects that drew Murdoc to satanic conventions like a bee to nectar. His Winnebago could always be found at such conventions. Usually rocking.

The red glow of bonfires appeared in the distance. "There it is," said Stumbo. He fidgeted, his fear of a few moments before forgotten.

Murdoc slowed the Winnie and looked around for a place to park. An area had been fenced off, and the fence was decorated with burning torches. Bonfires shone through the fog, Some of Murdoc's unease left him. It was all so very like every other satanic convention he had ever attended. He parked the Winnie and leaped out, dragging Stu-Pot's limp form behind him. "Come on Stumbo," he said and they carried Stu-Pot between them towards the dancing light of the bonfires.

Silhouetted against the flames were the convention goers. Goths, wearing black, apart from a few blood reds and wine purples. Their chunky silver jewellery, spiked dog collars and face piercings shone red in the light of the bonfires. Women wearing black leather corsets and long velvet skirts strolled by, their heads turning as they caught sight of Stu-Pot. Murdoc winked at them and pulled Stu-Pot's arm a little tighter around his shoulder. He could smell Stu-Pot's sweet butterscotch scent above the smoke of the fires and the burning incense coming from the stalls selling jewellery, cloaks and black candles.

Looming over the entire convention was a carved baphomet. An enormously fat man, wearing blood red monks robes, stood before it as if praying.

"Oh no," muttered Murdoc, recognising the figure in monks robes.

"Wassa matter?" asked Stumbo stopping so fast he nearly dropped Stu-Pot.

"It's Bane. Fucking nutcase. Why did they let him out of the loony bin?" said Murdoc.

"What'd he do?" asked Stumbo.

"He thinks he's the high priest of the Church of Satan. He's not. The real high priest is over in the States." Murdoc's voice trailed off and his head turned as a couple of gorgeous goth girls, with heavy, intricate makeup, walked past, their heads turning as well as they saw Stu-Pot dangling from Murdoc and Stumbo's shoulders. The prettiest spared Murdoc a grin as they walked into the beer tent. Murdoc felt that grin go straight to his groin.

He stared after her, but Stumbo, who hadn't seen her, was still peering at the red monk, "He kinda looks like a high priest."

"Just don't give him any money," Murdoc suggested. "Come on, Stumbo. I need a drink." He dragged Stumbo and Stu-Pot towards the beer tent.

* * *

"So yeah, Stu-Pot's just a pawn in my master plan," said Murdoc, sitting at a table in the beer tent, two hours and ten drinks later.

Samantha, the pretty Goth he had followed, nodded with fascination and took a swallow of her vodka. She was flushed and weaving unsteadily on her seat. Her friend, Sally, was whispering in Stumbo's ear and he looked pretty happy about it.

"That's so cool!" said Samantha. "I've got a master plan too, man. I want to open a fortune telling business. I can see auras and I'm really sensitive to locations. So what's your master plan?" she added breathlessly.

"To start a band!" hiccuped Stumbo. Murdoc kicked him under the table.

Murdoc glared at Stumbo and threw his cloak back over his shoulders in a grand gesture. "Nothing less than achieving point four of the late, great Anton LaVey's Pentagonal Revisionism. Stu-Pot is the world's first artificial human companion. The original embodiment of polite, feasible slavery!" he said, giving Stu-Pot a pat. Stu-Pot's warm, sweet body rested against Murdoc's side and his head was resting on Murdoc's shoulder. Murdoc was far too drunk to pretend he didn't like it.

Samantha's eyes widened. "That's so cool, dude! I didn't know that revision stuff about Satanism. I just came here for a dare. But isn't Stu-Pot, like, not artificial?" she said.

"Not since I ran him over. He's all mine now," said Murdoc. His left pupil gave a wicked flicker and he leaned over the table towards her. "So you're not a member of the Church of Satan, Samantha?"

"I'm not, neither is Sally," said Samantha, leaning forward herself.

Putting on his softest, most seductive voice, Murdoc said, "Would you like to join?"

"Uh, huh!" said Samantha, nodding her head.

Murdoc lay Stu-Pot's head down on the table and stood up, sweeping his cape around him, "Follow me!" he said.

* * *

Murdoc wanted to ditch Stumbo and Sally, so he was relieved when Sally babbled nervously as they walked to the Winnebago. "Is this going to hurt? Joining the Church of Satan sounds really intense, man. I don't want get sacrificed, or take my clothes off, or go to Hell or anything," she said, looking pale under her heavy makeup. "Ummm, I think I'll go and look at the candle stalls over there." She walked, almost ran, back to the convention.

"I'll go with you!" said Stumbo and hurried after her. Murdoc staggered, as he found himself holding up Stu-Pot by himself.

Samantha turned to follow the others but Murdoc grabbed her hand and tried to stabilize Stu-Pot with the other. "Samantha, there's nothing to worry about," he said. "All you need to do to join the Church of Satan is to look at a candle and say a prayer. That's all. It won't hurt."

"Promise?" said Samantha.

Murdoc grinned, showing green, pointed teeth. "Promise! And if you don't like it, you can leave at any time." He opened the door of the Winnebago and gave a theatrical gesture of invitation, partly spoilt by having to hang onto Stu-Pot and the way the door clanged sideways, partly off its hinges.

Samantha lingered a moment at the door. "What the Hell?" she said at length and stepped inside.

Closing the door behind with one Cuban heeled boot, Murdoc manhandled Stu-Pot onto the long sofa down the side of the Winnebago. He dropped him a little too hard and he bounced, with the springs pinging beneath him. Samantha giggled. She sat herself down at the breakfast table.

"So Stu-Pot's your slave, right? What can he do?" she said.

"He keeps me warm in bed. Much better than a hot water bottle," said Murdoc. The words came out before he could stop them. Murdoc added hastily, "I mean, his girlfriends say that." To cover his embarrassment, he pulled down the blinds.

Samantha giggled again.

"Maybe you'd like to give him a cuddle in bed later on, after you've joined the Church of Satan," Murdoc suggested, turning away from the final blind, sticking out his tongue and giving it a wiggle. He placed a black candle on the table and sat down. He lit the candle with a flourish and put his silver lighter into his shirt pocket. "Are you ready?" he said in a softer, more seductive tone.

The flickering light of the candle lit up Samantha's beautiful face. She nodded, and clasped her hands together.

"Clear your mind," said Murdoc, his voice oozing like warm chocolate. He reached forward and took both her hands. "Focus on the flame and say, "I am ready, oh, Dark Lord. I feel your strength within me and wish to honour you in my life. I am one of the Devil's Own. Hail Satan!"

As Samantha spoke the words, Murdoc looked into the flame and silently spoke a prayer of his own. 'Oh, Dark Lord, I bring you a follower. Answer my prayer. I wish to spend the night with the one I desire most.' He stroked Samantha's hands as he thought this, and couldn't help but grin. Then he whispered aloud, "Concentrate on the flame and on the image of Satan on Stu-Pot's t-shirt. Think of Satan's strength."

"Strength," whispered Samantha, staring into the candle flame like one mesmerised. "Strength," she whispered again. Her lips parted to say the word a third time but she froze in terror.

A roaring gust of icy wind struck the Winnebago. The black candle guttered and nearly went out. Samantha stuck her nails into Murdoc's hands with fright as the gale made the Winnebago rock on its suspension. Murdoc could hear tents flapping and tearing only a few metres away and he released Samantha's hands and yanked up the nearest blind. Outside he could see the convention goers holding their skirts and cloaks and running for cover. The large baphomet loomed over them. But beside the baphomet, his red robes swirling in the gale, his arms raised to the black sky in worship, stood Bane, screaming, "He is here! The Dark Lord is here. Hail Satan!"

"He IS here," said Samantha. Despite her recent fearful grab for Murdoc's hands, she was strangely calm now, as if someone was speaking through her. "He is here and I must go from this place. I'm not welcome." She stood.

"Now wait," said Murdoc desperately, standing as well. "It's only a gust of wind. Only a little change in the weather. No need to be leaving so soon." His plan to spend the night with her seemed to be unravelling and he wondered why his prayer had not been answered. Surely bringing such a woman to Satan would have a magnificent reward of passion?

"I must go, I am one of the Devil's Own and I must go," said Samantha, still with that strange calmness. She looked at Murdoc and he could see a trace of fear in the unnatural calm of her face. "Remember how I told you I can sense an atmosphere of a place. I'm sensing it now. It wants me to leave. Quickly!"

"Samantha, honey, I think you may have had a bit too much to drink. You're better off staying here out of the weather. Have a sit down on my bed and reconsider," said Murdoc.

Samantha turned and looked at the bed. Another gust hit the Winnebago and the candle flared. The light illuminated Murdoc's unmade bed, and the curves and rucks of the blankets formed the exact shape of a leering horned goat's head. The snarling face of Satan himself. Samantha screamed. Then another wuthering blast of wind struck the Winnebago and candle guttered out.

Screaming in the dark, Samantha flung herself away from Murdoc and out of the door, running back towards the satanic convention as fast as she could go, her skirt and hair blowing in the wind.

The door blew shut behind her. Staggering in the dark, towards the breakfast table, Murdoc got his lighter out and relit the candle. He looked first at the bed. From this angle, he could not see the face of Satan in the blanket and the primeval terror that made his very hair stick up a moment before subsided. He started to feel silly.

"Stu-Pot," he said to the still blue-haired figure lying on the sofa, who had not moved at all during the screaming and blasts of wind. "I've met some superstitious bimbos in my life, but she's the worst!" He looked more closely at Stu-Pot and concern made him take a deep breath.

Stu-Pot was shivering like a leaf caught in a storm. Comatose people have trouble regulating their body temperature, Murdoc recalled in alarm. He took Stu-Pot's hand and it was ice cold. His urge to chase straight after Samantha and convince her to return faded as he realised he might lose Stu-Pot in the process. He had to warm him up and fast.

Murdoc ran to the bed, no longer worrying about the leering face, dismissing the very thought of it, and yanked back the blankets. He ran back and picked up Stu-Pot, quickly pulling his clothes, collars and shoes off until he was only clothed in his nappy, all the better to warm him up quickly. He slid Stu-Pot between the covers, pulled off his own clothes and shoes, donned a pair of red pyjama bottoms and slid in beside the chilled, still body, rubbing him with warm hands and pulling the blankets tight around them both.

"I'll just stay long enough to warm you up, Stu-Pot," Murdoc said. "Then I'm going after that Samantha." If Stu-Pot had been conscious, he would have heard the frustration in Murdoc's voice, "I'm supposed to be having a night of passion with the one I most desire. At this rate, I'll end up spending the night with you!"

He lay draped around Stu-Pot, feeling his shivering subside, smelling his sweetness. It was comfortable there in the bed. Murdoc's eyes slid closed and he forced them open again. The long and harrowing drive here on the rough, but horribly familiar track, was catching up with him. He buried his head in Stu-Pot's neck, smelling the soft, sweet skin, feeling the pulse beating and felt a part of him moving on its own. Damn, it! Damn the cold! It was only early, and the convention was still going. It wasn't time to sleep yet. Especially with this raging erection. He had to do something about it. Where was Samantha? Why was he so tired all of a sudden?

Even as he swore to himself, Murdoc fell asleep.

And dreamed that he woke.

He was still lying in bed, in his Winnebago but the chill of the Scottish night had vanished. A warm, red light came from under the blinds and the air itself was warm, a luscious, luxurious heat. Murdoc reached down to push the blankets off his now naked body and found they had turned into the green blankets that had protected the keyboards at Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium from dust. The bloodstains had long since faded and the blankets were clean and soft against his skin and his raging erection.

Stu-Pot lay beside him in the bed. The red light turned his hair purple, and highlighted the delicate planes of his face. Murdoc caught his breath as a fist of desire struck him in the stomach. No, he couldn't. He couldn't do anything to Stu-Pot. He was male, for Satan's sake and unconscious to boot. Where was Samantha?

She had to be outside. Outside the Winnebago was the destination, the place he had been walking towards all these months. Murdoc climbed out of bed, away from Stu-Pot's warm, sweet body and felt bereft. He was glad when the blood handcuffs caught him and he realised he couldn't leave Stu-Pot behind. Of course, he had to come too, some part of Murdoc rationalised. He couldn't leave a comatose man on his own.

He picked Stu-Pot up and lost control for a moment as the warm body pressed against him. He groaned, crushed the man to his chest, pressed his face into his throat, and his hands to his buttocks and thrust his hips at him. It took a few seconds for Murdoc to stop himself, and pull Stu-Pot up in a chaste position in his arms. Control yourself, Murdoc, he thought. What would your brother Hannibal say? Anyway, there's a woman just outside. There has to be.

Outside, the convention had vanished. But the burning red light of bonfires still blazed, morphed and changed into lines of fire. Murdoc's eyes followed the lines, and saw that they formed a gigantic, red, baphomet drawn not in ordinary flame, but in razor slashes through the darkness, and into another dimension of burning fire. It was as if Stu-Pot's t-shirt had come alive and was emblazoned on the top of the hill.

The baphomet was the destination. Inside it, he would find what he was looking for.

Walking towards it, Murdoc felt a powerful sense of joy and anticipation, not to mention a rush of desire that almost doubled him up. He bowed low to the baphomet, with Stu-Pot in his arms. Somehow, he could only look at Stu-Pot's face, as he took the final steps, it was as familiar to him by now, as his own. He looked at the snub nose, the demurely closed eyes.

Murdoc stepped over the first line of flame and placed his left foot into the baphomet.

A shudder went through Stu-Pot and he stirred in Murdoc's arms.

Murdoc put his right foot into the baphomet and stood complete inside it.

The blood handcuffs fell to dust. Stu-Pot took a deep, shuddering breath and his eyes opened, one white, one damaged black. His right arm lifted and went behind Murdoc's neck and his mismatched eyes looked deep into Murdoc's, burning with something Murdoc could not quite make out.

Murdoc froze. Stu-Pot's open eyes always had this effect on him. He waited, with a pain in his chest, for the eyes to close and Stu-Pot to go back to being unconscious.

Stu-Pot stared for a long moment, and then he smiled. "Hi," he said. His voice was not the faint rasp of a semi-comatose man. It was strong and healthy. The arm around Murdoc's neck was warm and stable.

Trembling, Murdoc said, "Hi," back. He waited for Stu-Pot's eyes to close, but Stu-Pot's eyes remained open, looking at Murdoc with an expression that started out tender, then gradually became amused as the moment went on and on and he lay there in Murdoc's arms, showing no sign of falling back into unconsciousness. With the air of a person in a pub trying to start a conversation, and a grin on his face, Stu-Pot put his face close to Murdoc's and said, "Come here often?"

Murdoc laughed and the tension broke. "No, this is my first time," he said. The body in his arms had muscles Murdoc's nursing training told him he shouldn't have after so long in a coma. He set Stu-Pot's feet onto the ground where he stood, without a trace of weakness. He was still wrapped in green blankets and there was a look of utter euphoria on his face. He looked down at his body, tracing his gaze up his legs, over his arms, his open hands and looked at Murdoc, laughing with the sheer joy of being conscious again.

Murdoc laughed for joy too. There seemed no need for words. Stu-Pot was radiant. All thoughts of Samantha left Murdoc completely.

Stu-Pot examined his hands. "How long have I been out?" he said.

"Nearly a year," said Murdoc, wondering at the strangeness of it all. He looked at Stu-Pot and a feeling of guilt stole over him.

"Doesn't feel like a year," said Stu-Pot in a casual tone. He stopped looking at his hands and gave Murdoc a grin.

Murdoc couldn't help himself. "Does to me. Look, Stu-Pot, I'm so sorry I ran you down," he said. "I..." Stu-Pot reached out and touched an index finger to Murdoc's lips, to silence him. It wasn't so much the touch that silenced him but his body's reaction to it. Murdoc's lips tingled and he felt heat rising up into his cheeks and plunging down into his groin.

"I'm not sorry. If you hadn't run me down we wouldn't be together now," said Stu-Pot, seriously. He looked at Murdoc with concern in those vast, mismatched eyes. Then his expression turned cheeky and he gave Murdoc's chest a playful punch. "Cheer up! Betcha can't catch me!" he said, and darted further into the baphomet, holding the green blankets around him, looking behind at Murdoc as he ran.

"Bet I can!" said Murdoc, feeling his mood lift, and set off in hot pursuit, leaping over the burning lines after the lanky, green wrapped figure. Stu-Pot was agile. He ducked out of Murdoc's grasp and ran towards the centre of the baphomet, laughing merrily, but in the centre of the baphomet he paused and turned.

Murdoc saw his chance. He charged at Stu-Pot, grabbing him around the waist. They fell and rolled on the ground, wrestling and laughing, Stu-Pot coming to rest on top of Murdoc. The green blankets came loose around Stu-Pot's body.

He was naked underneath them, his pale skin gleaming in the red light. His mismatched eyes burned and his tongue slipped out from his lips. He was, without a doubt, most beautiful thing that Murdoc had ever seen.

Desire cut through Murdoc like a lightning bolt. He lay under Stu-Pot, who crouched on top of him, his legs on either side of his hips, his arms straight and his hands on Murdoc's shoulders, pinning him down. Stu-Pot was panting, his pale face was flushed, his lips were parted, showing straight, white teeth. Neither of them were laughing anymore.

Lost in Stu-Pot's eyes, Murdoc saw him bending his arms to bring their faces together, and he arched his own body up to meet him. Their lips approached, almost touching.

You fag! You fucking poofter! Murdoc flinched. He had heard his brother Hannibal's voice in his head as loudly as if the bastard had been standing right beside him. The memory of the steel capped boot kicking him repeatedly made him struggle in Stu-Pot's grip. "Sweet Satan! " Murdoc cried out. "What am I doing?"

He thrust Stu-Pot away from him and stood up, turning away, the memories of Hannibal's abuse and his own protests overpowering. He wasn't gay. He wasn't! He couldn't be. The final, the most powerful reason why he couldn't be gay came to him. It wasn't safe for a guy like him! Hannibal, Hell, practically any one of the men he spent time with, the men he called friends, would literally kick him to death if they found out he was bisexual. Murdoc put his head in his hands and groaned.

Then he felt a light touch on his arm. Strong hands moved his own away from his face and made him straighten up. He looked up into Stu-Pot's beautiful face and was caught, mesmerised, once again. He couldn't move as Stu-Pot put both arms around him and drew him into a kiss that melted his insides.

Murdoc struggled weakly, but all the fight was leaving him as desire overcame every single objection he had.

Oh, what the Hell...

Memories of Hannibal faded as Stu-Pot's naked belly and chest pressed into his own. He parted his lips and Stu-Pot's tongue slipped inside, rubbing up against Murdoc's with a passion Murdoc could not believe, even though he shared it. He wrapped his arms around Stu-Pot, unable to stop himself or break away as Stu-Pot took control, biting and nibbling down his throat and chest, taking a nipple into his mouth and sucking it hard. Murdoc's knees gave way and both of them fell to the ground onto the green blankets, Murdoc bringing Stu-Pot down on top of him.

There was no more embarrassment. No more second thoughts or guilt. No thoughts of Hannibal and his beatings. None of that existed here, in this dark place, surrounded by tongues of fire. Only desire existed. Murdoc did not even question the way Stu-Pot took control. Murdoc had never liked being controlled. He usually found helplessness terrifying. But not now. Not here.

Afterwards, Murdoc lay there with Stu-Pot in his arms. Never had he felt more spent, more satisfied and relaxed as he did now. He couldn't move, except to hug Stu-Pot more closely, close his eyes and listen to their panting subside. Utter bliss.

For a long time they lay together. Wordless. Holding each other. Murdoc opened his eyes, "I want to stay like this," he said.

He felt Stu-Pot's fingers trailing up and down his back. "I want to stay too," he said. "But I can't."

"What can I do to make you stay?" said Murdoc in a plaintive tone, laying a hand on Stu-Pot's cheek.

There was a look of strange concentration on Stu-Pot's face, as if he listened to a voice only he could hear. "You need to say my name aloud. If you say my name, my real name, all will be well," he said slowly.

"That's easy," said Murdoc. "Stu-Pot!"

The black earth beneath them rumbled with an earthquake that got stronger and stronger. The tongues of fire around them began to die down.

"I don't think that was the right name," said Stu-Pot, sitting up in a hurry.

Murdoc sat up too, and raised is arms in frustration at the fading, shaking black and red world around them. "What the fuck is this? The Neverending Story? That was a stupid film. You want his real name? OK, how about...Stuart? Stuart Tusspot? Mr Tusspot? One Dint?" The reds and blacks around them faded to a dull grey. The earthquake strengthened and the entire world seemed about to split into two. Murdoc hung onto the shaking ground and turned to Stu-Pot. "Help me out here. Did you have any nicknames in school?"

"More than I could count," said Stu-Pot.

"Quick, say them before I lose you!"

But Stu-Pot was shaking his head and again seemed to be listening to a voice only he could hear. "It's not one of the nicknames I had in school." He added in a despairing tone, "If you don't know it, then it doesn't exist yet. That means I can't be awake. Oh no...!"

With a crack of thunder, the grey world split, right down the middle between Murdoc and Stu-Pot. Murdoc made a grab for Stu-Pot but it was too late. He had a last, despairing glimpse of Stu-Pot, his arms held out, trying to reach him. Then the grey light covered everything and he was gone.

* * *

The grey light of morning was coming from under the blinds. Murdoc yelled himself awake, still reaching for Stu-Pot. He didn't have to reach far. He was holding Stu-Pot in his arms. Murdoc sighed with relief. He hadn't lost him after all. What a night! He had just let Stu-Pot make love to him, had given himself whole-heartedly to the man and it was WONDERFUL. The greatest night of his life.

Murdoc sprang fully awake. Yelling and panting with horror, he sat up. He was in his own bed, in the Winnebago. The blankets around him were their usual purple, not green. Cold morning air swirled around his bare chest and the warm air of the night before, no, the dream, it had to be, had gone. Murdoc caught his breath. The Winnebago was empty, apart from Stu-Pot, lying still at his side. There was no sign of Samantha. No sign of Stumbo, he must have got lucky with Sally and ended up in her car.

The dregs of the dream faded and reality crowded in. No, Murdoc hadn't made love with Stu-Pot. He'd never! Never, ever even touch a man! What a ridiculous dream! What a nightmare!

His pyjama pants were sticky. Murdoc grumbled in embarrassment and tugged at them. It was time to check if Stu-Pot needed to be changed and change his own pants and try to forget about what had caused the mess.

The air was chilly when Murdoc pushed back the blankets, picked Stu-Pot up and carried him to the bathroom. Goose bumps appeared on Stu-Pot's flesh and Murdoc realised he should hurry, but when he checked Stu-Pot's nappy, he stopped still, unable to believe his eyes.

Stu-Pot's nappy was just as sticky as Murdoc's pyjamas.

A feeling of horror came over Murdoc and he had an image of the two of them, lying in his bed, both unconscious, and rubbing together in the night until they both came in each other's arms. That was what had happened. It was the only explanation.

Forget wuthering wind, mad high priests and Satan's face in the blankets. As far as Murdoc was concerned, this was the scariest thing that had happened to him during the entire satanic convention.


	9. Wicked 360

**Chapter 9 - Wicked 360**

_How could you leave me?  
When I needed to, possess you, I hated you, I loved you too  
- "Wuthering Heights" by Kate Bush_

_Don't forget it was me who nursed you out of your coma in the loony bin  
- Murdoc from the Dotmusic dot com interview_

_Q3: You were in a coma can you explain what effect that had on you?  
2D: Well, when I came to I found that I had an instant recall to Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring" but nothing out of the ordinary  
- Apex Tapes interview  
_

Standing in the nursing home carpark in the gathering dusk, Murdoc slipped his mobile phone back into his pocket and let his mismatched eyes feast on the sight before him. There was Stu-Pot, of course, looking particularly fetching in a camouflage patterned t-shirt and Converse sneakers, his blue hair gleaming against the front seat of Murdoc's newest possession: the Geep. The Geep had a brand new camouflage paint job and it made sense to Murdoc that both it and Stu-Pot matched. They were his two most prized possessions, after all.

"Got a surprise for you, Stu-Pot," said Murdoc. He grinned as passers-by turned to stare at the sight of a demon talking to a comatose man. Murdoc loved attention, it was his favourite drug. Leaping with studied casualness into the driver's seat, aware of all the eyes on him, Murdoc turned the key and gave a wicked chuckle when the Geep engine came to life, roaring like a bull and even more passers-by turned to stare. His new car was a cracker! He revved it and gunned out of the nursing home carpark with smoking tyres.

Holding Stu-Pot back in his seat with one arm - the passenger seat of the Geep had no seat belt - and steering with the other, Murdoc tore through the streets of Nottingham. "Been talking to Dr Whinge, Stu-Pot, and he reminded me it's our anniversary today, sort of. I ran you down a year ago and you still haven't woken up. Bad sign, the doc says. Means you'll probably never wake up. But I told him it's a good sign. I mean, it's not as if you were really living before you met me. Working in a keyboard store? Studying at a Conservatorium? Boring as batshit! I Now /I you're really living," said Murdoc. The quiet streets of Nottingham flew by. Someone honked and Murdoc made a rude sign in their direction.

He turned back to Stu-Pot. "So I thought we'd pay Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium a little visit," said Murdoc, a gleeful grin coming over his face.

Stu-Pot smiled, the way he always did when Murdoc talked to him, but he didn't open his eyes.

* * *

Hours and two six packs of cheap beer later, night had fallen and the Geep was parked in the Tesco's supermarket car park next to Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium. The Emporium was closed and almost unrecognisable as the same shop Murdoc had ram raided a year before. Now it was protected by a heavy, rolling screen and there were security stickers plastered to the screen, promising closed circuit security cameras and armed security guards if anyone attempted to rob the place again. 

Murdoc threw an empty beer bottle against the screen and it shattered. "Nice they haven't forgotten me," he laughed. He glanced back at Stu-Pot and for a moment, thought he could see two of him. Then the two images blurred back into one. Satan, he was pissed! Though not as much as usual. He wasn't lying on the ground holding on yet.

Stu-Pot lay on the passenger seat, a sweet smile on his face and a cigarette dangling from his lips. Murdoc took a swig out of the bottle that rested in Stu-Pot's lap, then took the cigarette out of Stu-Pot's mouth, and held the bottle to Stu-Pot's lips, watching him swallow reflexively and his eyes flick under his closed lids. When Murdoc took the bottle away and put the cigarette back, Stu-Pot stirred and gave a wordless murmur. "What are you dreaming about?" Murdoc asked.

Stu-Pot had been restless lately, like a sleeper about to wake. Not for the first time, Murdoc wondered what he'd do if Stu-Pot woke from his coma. Surely nothing would change? Stu-Pot ate the same food as Murdoc, wore the same clothes, listened to the same music, attracted the sort of women Murdoc fancied and let Murdoc screw them. After Murdoc had kicked the women out they slept together in the same bed. Stu-Pot was as much a part of Murdoc's life as his Winnebago. Hell, they even both had mismatched eyes. Stu-Pot couldn't wake. It would ruin everything.

Taking another swig of beer, Murdoc silently assured himself that he had nothing to worry about. Hadn't Dr Whinge just told him comatose people hardly ever woke up after a year? He reached over and rubbed the soft, blue spikes of hair on Stu-Pot's head, feeling the dint the accident had left behind. "Nothing but a serious blow to the head would ever wake you up, Stu-Pot," Murdoc said, half to reassure himself. "What's the odds of that happening any time soon?"

He took another swig and the uneasy feeling faded. The drunken recklessness returned. He was Murdoc Niccals, outside the store he had ram raided, sitting in the fastest car he'd ever owned, with his latest victim in the front seat. He could do what he liked, and this was supposed to be a celebration. He drained the bottle and tossed it at the security screen, where it smashed spectacularly, and put his seat belt on.

"Ever done a 360 donut spin, Stu-Pot? I bet this little baby eats them for breakfast," said Murdoc, bringing the steering wheel around while slamming his foot down on the accelerator. The Geep's tyres shrieked as Murdoc executed a near perfect donut spin in Tesco's carpark.

"Wicked 360, Stu-Pot? Love this, don't you?" Stu-Pot was being thrown around on the seat. He liked being thrown around, you could see by the grin on his face. "You should work in a funfair," said Murdoc. "Another 360, Stu-Pot? You know you want it," Murdoc grinned and slammed his foot down on the accelerator again, feeling his own seat belt clamp to his chest and pelvis, seeing Stu-Pot slip to the door side of the Geep again, then slide back to press against Murdoc, then slide forward...

Right over the windscreen.

Murdoc could see it happening, in slow motion, just like the ram raid. He slammed on the brakes but it only made things worse. He made a grab for Stu-Pot - too late. Stu-Pot flew forward over the front of the Geep, limp and helpless. Murdoc heard his head strike the kerb with a sickening thud.

The Geep stopped. Murdoc put the handbrake on, turned the Geep off and pulled out the keys automatically, shaking with horror, his face a frozen mask. Was he dreaming? Had he really managed to run over Stu-Pot again? The stink of burning rubber brought him round. Scared sober he leaped over the door and ran to Stu-Pot's side, crying out his name.

Right away, Murdoc could see something had changed. Stu-Pot was actually moving and groaning as he lay face down on the kerb, a thin trickle of blood running down from his head into the gutter. "Stu-Pot!" cried Murdoc again, crouching down. At this moment, he realised that Dr Whinge was right. Stu-Pot was his best friend. He couldn't deny it anymore. Had he killed him?

One weak, thin arm pushed against the ground as Stu-Pot tried to turn himself over. Gently, Murdoc reached over and helped him and found himself staring into Stu-Pot's face. Black blood trickled from his remaining white eye. Satan! Another eight ball fracture. But both of Stu-Pot's eyes, the black, and the blackening, were open, conscious and full of pain and confusion.

Murdoc could hear a police siren start up nearby but he heard it at the edge of his consciousness. There was something far more important happening in front of him.

Stu-Pot's mouth open and the faintest sound came out. "I can't hear you," said Murdoc, pressing his ear up against Stu-Pot's mouth. He felt the mouth move against his ear and the word:

"Rites."

"Rites?" said Murdoc, sitting up to look down on the bloodstained face below. "You want Last Rites? You're a Catholic?" Confusion spread over his face. "Your Dad said you were a Buddhist."

Stu-Pot's mouth moved again and this time Murdoc could hear him properly. "No," said Stu-Pot in a voice as faint as mist. "Rites...of Spring."

"What?" said Murdoc, feeling dizzy. He couldn't be sitting here, looking at the blood on Stu-Pot's face, listening to him talk, about classic music. It had to be a dream.

"Stravinsky's Rites of Spring. I can hear it," Stu-Pot's voice was raspy from lack of use and there was a distinct and dismaying half-wittedness in his voice that hadn't been there before. He tried to raise one of his weak hands to his dinted temple but failed. He looked up at Murdoc. "I can't move," he croaked. Then his face crumpled, "My head hurts. My eye! Oh God! What's wrong with me?"

Murdoc managed to speak. "I'm sorry, Stu-Pot. I'm so sorry," he said. He could see by Stu-Pot's expression that he was considering this and watched him, waiting for him to slip back into unconsciousness. But his damaged eyes remained steadfastly open.

"Do I know you?" whispered Stu-Pot.

Murdoc felt his heart clench. Stu-Pot had been looking right into his eyes as he said it and the words were like a punch in the face. Murdoc's cheeks flushed, remembering how the adoring way the comatose Stu-Pot had looked up at him as he lay in his arms, remembering the love in Stu-Pot's eyes during that strange black and red dream he had tried his hardest to forget. There was no recognition in Stu-Pot's eyes now. His best friend was a stranger.

Stu-Pot tried to sit up and failed. "Why are you saying sorry? Did you do this to me?" he rasped. There was a note of accusation in his voice.

"Sorry," was the only word Murdoc could say. He put an arm around Stu-Pot's shoulders and helped him up.

Stu-Pot's indrawn breath showed how much pain he was in. He squeezed his eyes shut. He's dying, thought Murdoc, trembling. I'm losing him. But Stu-Pot's eyes opened as a white light hit his face.

"What's all this then? Murdoc Niccals, what's going on?" said a loud, deep voice.

Murdoc turned his head. A police car had pulled up next to the Geep, pinning them both down with its headlights. The blood running down Stu-Pot's face shone in the light.

* * *

He was gone. Stu-Pot was gone, just like that. Murdoc paced in a fury, alone in a police cell. Gone off in an ambulance without a backward look at Murdoc, who had sat handcuffed in the police car, pressing his face to the window and shouting Stu-Pot's name as the ambulance's sirens and lights started and it drove away. 

Arrested for assault! He'd tried to talk his way out of it, but when Stu-Pot had cried, "Oh God, my head! What have you done to me?" it was all over but the handcuffing. That blue-haired twit had dropped him in it and no mistake. Luckily the police hadn't seen the wicked 360s, or he'd have had drink and dangerous driving charges as well.

It was too much to grasp. One moment he had been messing about with his best friend, Stu-Pot. The next his best friend was gone, replaced by a wincing, silent stranger. A stranger with unsettling, damaged, coal-black eyes.

What rankled Murdoc worse than anything was the ingratitude. After all he'd done for Stu-Pot that year: washed him, changed him, fed him, dressed him, taken him on holiday, carried him around to every pub and convention in Britain. Stu-Pot hadn't remembered a thing.

Most importantly, he'd forgotten that he belonged to Murdoc.

How Murdoc hated that blue-haired twit.

But something inside Murdoc felt torn in two, as he paced the police cell, hour after hour.

* * *

In the next part, the identity of the living doll is revealed 


	10. Living Doll

**Chapter 10 - Living Doll**

_I've got the one and only walking, talking, living doll  
- "Living Doll" by Cliff Richard_

Mid morning, the police cell door creaked open. Murdoc hadn't slept. Exhaustion had stopped him pacing around 6am, but sleep was still elusive. He was sitting on the bed, his head in his hands when the policeman came in. Murdoc looked up.

"Stu-Pot? Is he dead?" Murdoc said. The look on his face was so piteous that the policeman felt sorry for him.

"He's not dead," said the policeman and added, "Pick up your things, you're being released. You need to go to the waiting room."

Murdoc wasn't exactly himself after a missed night of sleep and didn't grasp what the policeman had said. "I'm out on bail?"

"No," said the policeman. "You're free to go. Charges have been dropped."

Murdoc stared in complete confusion. "How...?" he began, but his voice trailed off. The policeman stepped away from the door, waiting. Murdoc got to his feet, his legs shaking slightly. Free to go? He couldn't explain it at all, but he managed to put a cocky expression anyway, stretching and sauntering after the policeman, past the rows of holding cells, towards the waiting room. He peered through the window in the waiting room door and saw two very familiar people. Stu-Pot was there, wearing a dull green hospital gown. He was sitting slumped in a wheelchair, his eyes closed and his head bandaged. Behind him, stood Dr Whinge.

Murdoc took a moment to master himself before sauntering in, looking as confident and casual as he could, though he suspected Dr Whinge wasn't taken in for a moment. "Glad you could get me off the charges, doc, but you took your time, didn't you?"

To Murdoc's astonishment, Stu-Pot opened his eyes. Both were coal-black now. A heartbreaking, sleepy smile spread over his face. "Murdoc!" he whispered. All the recognition that had been missing when Murdoc had last seen him had returned with a vengeance. He looked like a sleepy puppy who had just seen its owner.

"Ever the grateful one, aren't you Mr Niccals?" said Dr Whinge wryly. "Actually I got here hours ago. I saw you in the papers this morning, charged with assault against Mr Tusspot here so I came to work early and found him in the emergency ward. I couldn't believe my eyes. He was conscious and humming Stravinsky's Rites of Spring. What did you do to him, Murdoc?"

"I used my delicate, sensitive touch, Dr Whinge," Murdoc tried to give a cocky grin, but it came out looking worried instead. He crossed the waiting room and crouched down next to Stu-Pot, looking him up and down. Was he alright? He looked ready to fall unconscious again at any time. Looking Stu-Pot right in the face, Murdoc said, "How do you feel?"

"Tired," Stu-Pot murmured.

Dr Whinge spoke above his head. "I've seen the x-rays. Mr Tusspot has a second dint in his head. He's been kept in all night for observation."

"Doctor gave me some pills," Stu-Pot whispered.

Murdoc took Stu-Pot's wrist and felt for his pulse. He felt a gentle touch on his own wrist as Stu-Pot reached for him with his other hand. The touch tingled.

"I told Mr Tusspot what you'd done for him this past year," said Dr Whinge. "He insisted on coming here and having the assault charges dropped. That was a couple of hours ago."

"You looked after me. You're my best friend," Stu-Pot whispered. The heartbreaking grin hadn't left his face.

Stu-Pot's pulse was slow. Murdoc lifted his fingers from Stu-Pot's wrist but left his hand in place with Stu-Pot's hand still on it. Dr Whinge's words sunk in.

"A couple of hours?" said Murdoc. "What took them so long?"

"They already had the bail papers ready," said Dr Whinge. "Your parents are here. They saw you in the papers, nice couple by the way, and they were about to have you released on bail, when we turned up wanting to have the charges dropped. The bail papers had to be cancelled and new papers made. It took a lot of time."

A furious look came over Murdoc's face. "My parents are here? Where are they?" He let go of Stu-Pot's hands and stood up.

"Outside. After talking with them I thought Stu-Pot and I should talk to you first," said Dr Whinge.

"Why? So you can persuade me to let them talk to me? The ones who kept their younger kids but adopted me out? I had the shit kicked out of me everyday at the foster home."

"They did mention that," said Dr Whinge. "But they have a very good excuse for giving you out for adoption."

"A good excuse?" Murdoc said, his voice getting louder until it turned into a scream. "I bet they've got a good excuse. They've had 30 years to think of one! I don't want to hear it. Was I too ugly to keep? What possible excuse can they come up with that will excuse years of hell?"

Stu-Pot's whisper cut across the shouting. "They were ten."

"What...?" said Murdoc.

"They were ten when they had you," said Dr Whinge, loudly and firmly. "They were forced to adopt. They couldn't raise a child together at that age. Maybe you think they're making it up? I know I haven't heard of many people who have gone through puberty at the age of eight. It seems very unlikely."

The change in Murdoc's expression was startling. From being almost incoherent with rage a moment before, he now looked like he had seen a ghost. "It's not as unlikely as you think," he said faintly.

Dr Whinge looked at Murdoc and a suspicion crossed his mind. "You were eight, when you reached puberty, weren't you?"

Murdoc nodded, and swayed a little. "Must run in the family," he said. He took a deep breath, trying to stop his knees from giving way beneath him.

"Your parents been looking for you for years," said Dr Whinge, a frown of concern crossing his face. "They were separated right after you were born by their families but they managed to track each other down ten years later. They married, had more kids. They've been looking for you for decades. Their little living doll. That's what they called you. Your mother was barely past keeping dolls when she had you. They couldn't find you. I suspect the fact you live out of a Winnebago might have had something to do with it. You wouldn't have been easy to find with no fixed address."

There was a long, long pause. Then Murdoc said, "Give me that wheelchair. I need to sit down." He picked up Stu-Pot in his arms and sat down heavily into the wheelchair with Stu-Pot on his lap. Stu-Pot's long arms and legs dangled and he gave a faint gasp of pain.

"Sorry, Two Dints," said Murdoc and on top of everything else, a strange blackness, shot through with lines of fire covered his vision. He heard a voice in his head, a voice from a dream:

_"If you say my name, my real name, all will be well."_

The blackness faded, and Murdoc realised he was face to face with Stu-Pot, who was staring at him intensely, his mouth open. The sleepy look had vanished. "What did you call me?" said Stu-Pot, his voice no longer a whisper.

Taking in the alert face in front of him, the truth about his parents flooding through him, Murdoc gulped, then mastered himself. "_Two Dints_," he said emphatically. "_That's_ your name now."

"That the most heartless name I've ever heard. Nearly as heartless as yanking him out of his own wheelchair," said Dr Whinge, over Murdoc's shoulder.

"He likes it, don't you Two Dints?" said Murdoc, grinning.

Two Dints started laughing, "Yeah, I do!" His pain was forgotten.

But Dr Whinge wasn't placated. "You can't call him Two Dints. Two dints is what your pelvic bone makes above your arse," he snapped. It was the first time Murdoc had heard him swear.

Murdoc felt a gentle touch on his lower back, just above his jeans. "You really do have two dints above your arse," said Two Dints.

Murdoc spluttered, while blushing like a fire engine, "Get off! Leave my arse alone, you're tickling me, Two Dints." He pulled the straying arm around from behind his back but Two Dints grinned cheekily and tried to put it back again. "Stop that!" said Murdoc. "Look, I warn you. Keep playing silly buggers and I'll call you 2D for short. Everyone will think you're two-dimensional."

2D drew his hand back, "2D? I LOVE that!" He looked wide awake.

"2D's a bit better than Two Dints," said Dr Whinge. "Not by much though. Put 2D back, Murdoc."

"Yeah, OK," said Murdoc, getting to his feet with 2D in his arms and depositing him back in the wheelchair. He took a deep breath. "Satan, I need a cigarette now." He lit one with a practised movement and then, through force of habit, popped it between 2D's lips before lighting another one for himself.

2D grabbed the cigarette with a weak arm and pulled it out his mouth. "I don't smoke," he said.

"Yeah, you do," said Murdoc.

2D took an experimental drag and looked up at Murdoc in surprise, "You're right! I do."

They could both hear Dr Whinge behind them grinding his teeth.

Murdoc blew out a lungful of smoke, "Now I've got to meet my parents. They're outside, right?"

"Let's ALL meet them," said 2D cheerfully. "Let's take 'em to the pub. Never been to a pub before. Not awake, anyway."

* * *

They all went to a pub in Nottingham.

"Hello babies! I knew you were only pretending to be comatose! Come and join us!"

Murdoc had been deep in conversation with his parents but he looked up, There was a blonde women in the corner, grinning like a maniac at them and waving. She was with a group of people wearing bulky pants, as if they had nappies on underneath.

Murdoc drained his beer with one swig. "We're going," he said.

"What, right now? We've barely sat down. Do you know those people?" asked Murdoc's mother.

"Vaguely, they're adult baby fetishists," said Murdoc. "You have no idea of the horror that awaits us if we stay here and talk to them. We're going to another pub right now. Don't worry about the wheelchair, Dr Whinge, we don't have time for it." Adopting the quick get away posture he'd used throughout the year he draped one of 2D's arms over his shoulders, put an arm around his waist and held him. But it was nothing like carrying the unconscious Stu-Pot. As they got close, the cheeks of both blushed red and the walk to the next pub seemed to take forever.

Dr Whinge pushed the empty wheelchair after them, watched them both and nodded to himself. What he had suspected was true. But what he actually said aloud was, "I am going to SCRUB my garden gnome when I get home. I'll explain in a minute, Mr and Mrs Niccals."

* * *

Yes, 2D wasn't the living doll. It was Murdoc all along!

I had planned to leave the story at that, but then the epilogue wrote itself...yes, it's a happy ending, as promised. I had an angsty one lined up but I thought I'd save that for the sequel, Hero.


	11. Epilogue: My Band

**Living Doll: Epilogue - My Band**

"Paula said she'll join. I know her from way back. Axe princess. She'll be lead guitar in the band. In MY BAND!" It felt so good to say 'MY BAND!' that Murdoc said it again. He blew out a lungful of cigarette smoke and grinned.

"What's she like?" asked 2D. They were resting in chairs along one of Nottingham Hospital's corridors. 2D was holding onto a walking frame. Two weeks had passed and he was already much stronger, thanks to Murdoc's insistence that he exercise almost every minute of the day. "I mean," 2D went on, looking at Murdoc with those haunting, damaged, coal-black eyes that Murdoc still found unsettling, "Is Paula easy to get on with?"

"Yes," Murdoc gave his trademark deep, sleazy chuckle. "Very easy to get on with. Very, very easy. I've gotten on with her loads of times."

"Huh? Do you think she'll like me?" asked 2D.

"Paula likes any guy with a pulse who'll fuck her and buy her stuff." Murdoc shrugged and took a drag of his cigarette. "I've found a drummer," Murdoc went on. "Look at this." He held up an article ripped out of a newspaper, which 2D took with frail hands.

2D took the article and read it, saying parts Murdoc had underlined aloud. "Russel Hobbes...drummer...possessed by the spirits of rappers...working in a Soho record shop." 2D looked up. "Why him?"

"Think about it. If I hire him, I'll get one drummer and about twenty rappers for the price of one," said Murdoc. "I called him and he's interested. I'll interview him next week when we drive over to see our new studio."

A look of delight crossed 2D's face and he sat up straighter. "You got a place?" he said.

"Think so. I've been looking on the Internet and Kong Mansions in Essex seems to fit the bill. Cheap and big. Not sure why a place that big is so cheap. Maybe it's the landfill next door?"

"Maybe it's infested with rats from the landfill, or something," 2D suggested.

Murdoc shuddered. "Eww! I can't stand rats," he said. "But there's a graveyard next door to the landfill. If we're lucky the zombies will eat all the rats. So that's OK then."

"Yeah, zombies are cool!" said 2D.

Murdoc stretched out luxuriously on his chair. 2D was a man after his own heart. Every passing day made it clearer. Murdoc thought back to the nasty bad boy crew and compared them mentally to what he had now. "I can't believe how well this is turning out," Murdoc said. "The bands I started before gave this me nothing but grief. I've had keyboard players who couldn't play, I've had drummers who stole money out of my wallet. Every kind of shit you can possibly think of. But everything's easy this time. Must be a higher power involved." He glanced at the floor and grinned, "Hail Satan!"

"You don't even have to steal keyboards this time," said 2D, grinning too. "Because I've got the largest keyboard collection in Nottingham." He gave a happy sigh. "Did you know Uncle Norm called me this morning and wanted me back working in his shop? I turned him down, I told him I was going to be the lead singer and keyboard player in your band." A thought struck him. "That's true, isn't it? Because you haven't asked me yet."

"I don't NEED to ask you, 2D. You'll do what you're told," said Murdoc.

2D bit his lip. "I'd like to hear it anyway," he said.

Murdoc cleared his throat. "Alright, then. So what'll it be 2D? A life of washing windows in Uncle Norm's Organ Emporium or hitting the road for sex, drugs and rock and roll in my band? MY BAND!"

2D looked doubtful, "I prefer hip hop," he said.

Murdoc groaned. "It's just a saying, dullard. OK, hitting the road for sex, drugs and hip hop, in MY BAND."

"Hitting the road? Headfirst again?" said 2D, with a carefully neutral expression.

Opening his mouth to give a frustrated reply, Murdoc noticed the twinkle in 2D's eye and realised he was joking. "Arse first this time. It's about time another part of your body got dinted," said Murdoc.

2D laughed and offered a weak hand to Murdoc, "I'll join your band. It's a deal," he said.

Murdoc took his hand and shook it, squeezing it tight.

Dr Whinge saw them drive off in Murdoc's Winnebago a few minutes later. He looked out the window, at the pair of them sitting close together in the front seat, talking nineteen to the dozen about their plans and their new lease on life and gave his informed, medical opinion of their relationship to himself.

Both queer and hopelessly in love with each other, thought Dr Whinge. I wonder which one will realise it first?

THE END


End file.
